


I Will Return to the Ruins

by ReceiverofWisdom



Category: Claymore, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Daedra Worship, F/F, Here we go, May be a little OOC, it gets better as it progresses, lots of romance and sadness, lycanthropy, original elder scrolls characters, the writing will be better the more comfortable I get with it, whats a fandom without elder scrolls AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6840022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReceiverofWisdom/pseuds/ReceiverofWisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She who hurries through life hurries to her grave.</p><p>In the Fourth Century of the Fourth Era, necromancy becomes a rampant problem. In order to combat this affront, Claymores are created for Meridia's bidding and for the preservation of life.</p><p>Their orders are black and white. Jean manages to find the grey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lilacs

**Author's Note:**

> I've downplayed some of the Claymore's abilities and up-played every creature around them because I enjoy putting a lot of hardship and pain into my fics. Their purpose and what they're capable of will become more clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've downplayed some of the Claymore's abilities and up-played every creature around them because I enjoy putting a lot of hardship and pain into my fics. Their purpose and what they're capable of will become more clear.

She has lost track of the days, the weeks, and perhaps even the months gone by in their travels.

It is only recently however, that through their trials, she begins to look upon Clare like she looks upon the twin planets above and the freckled stars and swirling galaxies clustered around them, on a lonely night in a wide field where the lands of Cyrodiil around her lay sprawled and barren for her restless feet; with virtuous awe and a bottomless sense of frightening curiosity. On cold nights, the simplest of touches and off-handed brushing can send warmth creeping along the rise and slopes of her ribs, melting away goosebumps and all at once, causing a shiver to ripple along her spine. With more existential wonder than she can invest to the seemingly endless lands and the eternal void above, Jean ponders when precisely these feelings arose. Try as she might to avoid the dangerous line of thought, it persists and distracts.

Even as Jean relishes the warmth of the fire in front of her. For miles upon miles, trekking across vast swamp lands in the southeast isles closest to the dangers of the Black Marsh (and certainly no farther towards the border), the raw dryness of the elemental pit is a luxury she feels near guilty for taking part in. The Khajiit across from her has repeatedly insisted that their company is no treachery in his slit eyes.

Her sabatons sit nigh two feet from the hungry flames, turned upside down and propped for the sludge to slither out. They were not, in her opinion, the ideal environment for marsh water and moss. Trench foot was not on her list of things to obtain within the next few days. Her spaulders and torn faulds are in little better condition. She has lain them across a stump, splayed upside down, allowing the indents and crevices to dry before Clare inevitably pressed on hours from then. But she has shown no desire to even arise from her spot on a nearby rock. 

Clare’s silvered eyes, too, watch the flames with unabashed interest, though she pretends to be more intrigued in their temporary associate’s obviously endorsed tale of his recent venture to Morrowind. 

It is the price they pay for the hospitality he has given them. His warm, accented voice conceals the solitude of the night around them. Perhaps it is truly why Clare has agreed to stop and rest. Jean does not believe it is her place to inquire when stopping does them no harm. Especially when Clare has given in to tolerating her presence and tendency to intervene more easily as of late.

”Dar’ Kaleesh was well known for his ability to notch two arrows and secure his desired targets, you see. People say his eyes follow two different directions to track each arrow. This one can confirm this. Saw it himself! Almost thought he had a lazy eye. But this one did not intend to become a rug for the scale skin. Notice that I had said ‘was’, yes?” The Khajiit, whom they had soon and easily known to be called Do’ Kir, pulled his dark lips back into a smile. He paused at length, the tip of his tail flipping, and when Jean gave a glance to Clare she withheld a sigh.

”Yes. We noticed.”

”You Silver-Eyes are more attentive than most. This one appreciates it. Do’ Kir has said was, because Dar’ Kaleesh was once amongst the living. **Once** ! But you see, Argonians only have two eyes. One eye for each arrow. And Dar’ Kaleesh was renown for using two arrows.” The cat speaks as if he is gradually building up to the pun of a great joke, while at once conveying to someone some great wisdom.

Jean resists the urge to roll her eyes. It had quickly become clear to her as the broad sun set and night settled, that their host was a very isolated, though well-traveled individual. She almost wants to suggest that he write a book. With different formatting and dialogue. The way he stalls and checks for comprehension grates against her patience. But she knows what solitude can do to the mind, and because of that experience, she leaves the matter alone.

”Argonians have smaller brains surely. Like the little sand lizards. They are quick to hide in crevices and their narrow bodies and beady eyes let them focus on and evade predators more easily. Like the town guardsmen, or Khajiit. But when a small brain tries to focus on two things - complications arise. Three things! An improbability. I gave him a third thing to focus on, ha ha! A spear between his eyes as his two notched arrows were trained on this one’s smaller, inexperienced companions. Long ago. Do ‘ Kir has not seen them in a long, long while. I swear to you, for once in his life, Dar’ Kaleesh became cross-eyed. Like this!” The Khajiit demonstrates for visual effect.

It’s actually enough to get Clare to crack a bit of a smile. It is surprising to Jean and she thinks that, perhaps, her well of patience has just deepened several inches more for their host.

It was an unusual tale, but hardly the most cruel Jean had heard. The Khajiit's laugh was the most amusing thing.

Do ‘Kir laughs as if he had just told them the funniest story of the century, smacking a gloved hand against the side of his log before he gradually lets his laughter trail, unbothered by the silence of the Warriors in his company.

”Do ‘Kir has many more of these tales. Too many. I bet you have heard nothing like them. This one guarantees it. Would you like to hear about the shaved bear? The haunted room at Ill Omen Inn? Khajiit swears it is haunted, or was haunted. Was!”

”I would love to,” Clare starts in quickly, and Jean uses the opportunity of attention being taken off of her to shift her position, expecting it to be a long night. But surprise hits her when Clare continues, and she shoots the Warrior a brief, discreet, questioning look.

”But I must be getting on my way now. We have many miles ahead of us, and little time to cover them.”

”I have a tale about an armorer who wielded a sword of fire. Took him three tries to make it. Three lives taken.”

”We really have to go. I hadn’t realized how late we had been staying here until just now.” 

_We._

Jean’s heart does a clumsy flip.

_Stop it._

She catches Clare’s discreet motioning for her to stand, and she stands.

The Khajiit’s expression falls, but he submits, digging around in his fur pack only to offer them bread he had rolled in long leaves for preservation. Jean denies the offer, claiming they are very well set in the means of food. Backtracking, he offers something that is bountiful to him and surely depleted to them. Words are in endless supply.

”She who hurries through life hurries to her grave. This one bids you, if you see Do ‘Kir again and he does not see you first, give him a greeting.”

”We will likely be able to return your kindness next time,” Clare assures, placing her spauldings and connecting the straps of her armor. Without another glance, she turns from the glow of the fireplace, steps past the threshold of low branches, and almost immediately disappears into the smoggy darkness.

Jean is quick to follow behind her, after retrieving her own arms and being sure to keep track of Clare’s energy flow, offering only a single parting half-wave before she, too, disappears into the darkness. 

It takes moments for her eyes to adjust to the density of the bog, but when they do, she can see the other warrior several paces ahead. She would find herself missing the warmth of the fire, but her comrade’s inclusive choice of words keep her contentedly warm beyond the means of her own comprehension. To save herself grief, Jean has selected to ignore the strange happenings of her body for the rest of the night. It was simply too distracting to dwell. Too distracting, when attention would save either of their lives.

They continue northwest, until the Marshlands begin to break up, and the bog that once reached their knees became nothing more than soggy grass. Until the sun finally begins to break over the horizon, washing them both in its early warmth.

Flat lands begin to rise into tall hills, and vines dwell within the trees instead of between them. 

Jean takes a moment to appreciate the much sweeter smelling air and her comrade stalls to gauge their direction. A particularly steep hill lies to the north, so Clare selects a path between it farther to the west. They are, truly, in little hurry, and their brief stop back in the bog had done little to burden their schedule. With little else to do, they had started on the path of their assignment early, and in turn they were completing it early.

It is the last days of Rain’s Hand, and the weather remains brisk if not musky from a recent drizzle. Clouds hang overhead but they are not menacing; bountiful and fluffy with undersides of grey that simply promise to keep the day ahead pleasantly tempered.

Jean does not enjoy the heat. Their recent trek to the northern tip Elsweyr proved to be a reminder of the dreaded Midyear to Hearthfire that she would be enduring. The bogs of Black Marsh would only be humid. The farther they traveled from the south, the more at-ease she becomes.

She enjoys the far-off sight of the mountains. From a vantage point on the hill that she pauses at, she can see the tall tower of the Imperial City, which can be spotted from almost anywhere in Cyrodiil. Its stature is hardly exaggerated. The breeze ruffling her bangs is freeing. The amount of peace she feels lately is irregular and uncomfortable, countering into anxiety. Tranquility soon settles wrong in the pit of her stomach. The lands are rarely so quiet, and she half expects a goblin or two to come crashing through the bushes.

No such monster greets them as their heels go from marsh to clicking on cobblestone. The high walls of Leyawiin stand ahead when the sun is far past noon, though they have been advised to take the front entrance as opposed to the back. Making it seem as if they had just come from another more reputable civilization, as opposed to the Blackwoods, would be in their favor, Clare had mentioned. They already carried a questionable reputation. So they take the quick route around the massive walls and garrisons to the stables.

Several paint horses meander and graze, content, while one has its hooves tended to by a female Khajiit. She flicks her ears in their direction as they pass, but she does not excuse herself from her task to bother with them. From their distance, Jean can see the slight crinkle of recognition in the creature’s brow and the deep pull of her lips.

They smell strongly of things that disgust many and cause many more to tremble; and yet they enter the city with no complication. 

Jean steps ahead of Clare, pressing open one of the thick doors, and then standing to the side. It displeases Clare, she knows, but it gives Jean more of a sense of purpose, as opposed to being the ghost constantly on her tail.

As they enter, an enormous cathedral stands brilliantly to their right. The Great Chapel of Zenithar, she assumes. To the left, a sign that directs to Five Claws Lodge, accented by five long, worn claw marks diagonally down the side. A few feet behind it sits a well, and a guard who keeps his attention on an individual past them, mulling about aimlessly near some bushes. The streets are surprisingly clean, and in spite of the vines that climb the walls and the spots of blooming foliage and healthy trees it is a shocking change from the wilderness.

Is a prosperous and busy community, and that is what stands it apart from being the cornerstone to Elsweyr and the Black Marsh. The streets are wide, the houses large, and the inhabitants, though primarily Khajiit and Argonian, are a churned pot of cultured individuals from throughout the Empire. They lounge and gossip and tease and play. Some turn their attention to the duo, and are quick to advert it. The more brazen young Khajiit cubs let their gazes follow the duo, unabashed in their strong sense of curiosity. Had their parents been near, Jean is assured that the children would have been lead astray back into the comfort of their homes.

Leyawiin is, perhaps, Jean’s favourite in spite of its location being significantly south. The cultures are mixed and over the span of so many years, the inhabitants are by far the most accepting of Silver-Eyed Witches in the entirety of Cyrodiil. If there was a more welcoming place, Jean would love to be notified of its whereabouts. It has changed little, even towards the suspected end of the Fourth Era.

She can hardly tear her eyes away from the stacked houses, and by the time she does, Clare is not in her sight. Jean is unconcerned by her disappearance, at the moment. She suspects that Clare went ahead to the Countess to turn in the artifact of importance that they had recovered for her. Instead, she directs her attention to the Five Claws Lodge. Purchasing a room early would do no harm. For as long as she could remember, the Lodge had been family owned, passed down successfully into each generation.

She crosses to the other side of the street, stopping briefly to allow two young Argonians to pass, one hell bent on catching the other, before she shoulders her way into the Lodge. A rectangular bar area sits to the right with a single attentive Argonian scrubbing at a mug. Directly ahead, a more spacious dining area. Jean takes in the scene before her before turning to the Argonian, who had obviously heard her come in, but had yet to look up. 

She parts her lips to speak, and the scaled creature beats her to it with very unexpected hospitality.

”Greetings Claymore. Food and beds are cheap. Your hosts promise that both will always be clean. Vistha guarantees this, everything always clean, or you will not pay a coin.”

”Your services have always been superb,” Jean supplies, and that earns her a very pleased smile from the host, who immediately brightens at her words. “I will take one room. A comrade of mine will be by later.” She pulls out a pouch and rummages, retrieving twenty gold.

”A single room is only ten.”

”There are two of us. I will pay properly for the weight of our stay.”

Though mildly hesitant, the Argonian takes the sum with no further complain, and hands Jean a key. “ Second door from the entrance. Don’t lose it. I will have Hides-Her-Eyes bring your meal later on.”

Before Jean can decline, she is interrupted.

”I insist. For your past services.”

It is a fair offer, and choosing to argue more would only be a disservice, and a waste of time for the host. So Jean nods, clips the key onto her person, and turns on her heel to exit.

Outside the inn, it has begun to drizzle. The commonplace state of weather in the region. Her glinting eyes roam the streets before her, and along the high walls of the Cathedral of which she cannot enter. What is there to do, but wait?

She is confident in Clare’s ability to find her, and vice versa, and so she wanders.

After nearly ten minutes of meandering, avoiding eye contact with citizens, though giving a polite nod where warranted, her bangs have begun to stick to her forehead and her clothes are sticking to her skin. Her armor, frigid to the touch, clatters as the drizzle becomes rain. The common citizens around her are undeterred by the heavier clouds in the distance, and continue with their daily tasks.

After doing a full circle, or three, around the city and making her presence undeniable, a commoner in white robes approaches her. 

For a moment she is taken aback, until he produces a square of parchment without a word, hands it to her, and departs just as quickly. Such is expected. She walks on into a small courtyard with a couple of benches surrounding a well. A discreet check of the area is done before she sits down, and lowers her eyes to the parchment.  
　　 **West of Skingrad  
By the seventh of Second Seed**

**\- CLAYMORE**  
She does not need a reminder as to where the location is. She has been there countless a time. What captures her attention more is the time at which they must be there. They have almost a week to cross a heavy portion of Cyrodiil by foot. Unless they travel normally, as they have been, they would attract an unnecessary amount of attention to themselves. 

The sooner she informs Clare, the better.

She knows she must seem out of place, and she is conscious of young eyes on her, so she lingers for several more minutes, pretending to appreciate the stature of the buildings above, as if she had not been doing so earlier. In the distance, Clare’s presence pings. Jean twitches a little out of surprise before relieving the stone bench of her weight. She walks the opposite way that she had entered, goes around a row of houses into a more quiet neighborhood and then rights herself into Clare’s last known location. The closer she gets, the easier Clare is to locate. 

She turns a corner, narrowly misses bumping into a Dunmer, and spots Clare several feet away, close to the Lodge by the gates they had entered from. She squints to make out the sign by the doorway. **The Dividing Line.** An armorer, if she recalls properly. She approaches behind the other warrior, slips her hand beneath the other’s cloak, and taps the note against her hand. 

Clare is quick to retrieve it and, disguising their contact as a mere bump to the shoulder, Jean steps back and gives her room.

The Argonian merchant, who she suspects to own The Diving Line, appears to be ranting to Clare fervently, and pointing inside of his shop where the door stands to be propped open. 

As Jean looks about them, she noticed that his ranting has gained attention.

”You’re bad for business. Both of you! Nothing happened until you two arrived. Everything was just fine! Then suddenly my shop is overrun with rats! I had heard you were witches, but I didn’t expect this. What have I done to you? Nothing!” He sneers, showing a row of serrated teeth, his arms are crossed tightly. Behind closed doors, he would be one to cower. In public, he makes a show of a misfortune that is clearly not relevant to their arrival. 

Mortals are impressionable. The shop owner’s anger, because he is well known and they are a foreign matter, could give a quick rise to the temperament of the many attentions being thrown to them.

Jean is content to side-eye her companion. It is not her place to intervene just yet.

”We do not travel with infectious rodents as company. It is known. However, as a potential customer, I would be happy to help you be rid of the rats in exchange for access to your services.”

”My services?” The Argonian stalls, his narrowed, hostile eyes widening a little. 

”Yes. You repair armor, do you not?”

The Argonian looks to his shop, then back to the duo, unfolding his arms, his right hand twitching. “How do I know you two didn’t plan this? Planting rats into my shop, then offering to be rid of them for a discount. It’s downright criminal.”

”Were I to have use for any criminal affairs -.”

”This one has been in the castle.” A Breton interrupts, his voice rumbling as he gestures to Clare.

Jean remembers him lounging with a tankard of wine in hand.

”And that one has been aimlessly wandering since she stepped out of the inn. Not a single one of those creatures has been seen around. They probably squirmed their way in to get to the food you leave lying on your table tops all the time.”

The Argonian turns his full attention to the Breton, animosity in his movements. Before he can reply, the sliding of metal reaches his ears, and he cocks his head back to Clare, only to be greeted by the sight of Jean unsheathing her Claymore, and stepping inside of the store. In a whole of several seconds, after a muted commotion, she returns into the open, blade bloodied though she uses a cloth to wipe it clear.

”I have taken the liberty of clearing your shop of the chance infestation. You can take care of what is left, and disregard any fees we might have usually charged.” With a look to Clare, she steps past the shopkeeper, and back towards the Lodge near the northern most entrance.

The Argonian, struck speechless, simply stares at Clare as she, too, passes by him. The commotion is quick to dissolve, and as if nothing occurred, citizens continue on their way; meandering, purchasing, resuming their conversations albeit a little more quietly.

Clare steps quickly to catch up with Jean, entering the doorway right behind her, and following her closely to their room, giving no more than a glance to the host at the bar. Inside the room, Jean stands at the center, burdened by thoughts and the weight of her comrade’s gaze.

”That was unnecessary.” Clare finally comments, the ruffling of fabric audible. “You didn’t need to intervene. You could have kept going. It would have attracted less attention.”

As Jean cocks her head back, she witnesses Clare unclip her cloak, and rest it on the wooden seat. She does not comment, instead unsheathing her Claymore once again, and moving to stab the tip through a crack before she stops herself.

Hospitality is rare. She entered the room clean, she will leave it clean and undamaged. She gently rests the weapon against the wall, and takes a seat on the wide bed, adjusting her cloak as she does so.

Clare does not bother further with the matter. She finds purchase on the chair, and slides the note out to look it over. There is a short time of silence where Jean’s mind wanders, and she does everything in her power to keep her eyes from grazing the other’s direction. There is a knock at the door, and before Clare can so much as look up at the entrance way, Jean is crossing the room and pulling it open.

An Argonian with vibrant blue scales and a shawl over her eyes stands outside the door with a tray of bread and cheese, and a bottle of cheap wine. Had time passed so quickly? The skies had darkened, yes, but she had assumed it due to the weather.

”Sorry to intrude. Here is your meal. If you need anything more, Vistha will be available until midnight.”

Jean thanks her, takes the platter, and moves to close the door.

”Do not concern yourself with Broken Horn.”

The warrior stops, and raises a single thin brow.

”He is not from here. He bought the shop from the family a few years back, ending the long line of heritage to the armory. No one is pleased about it. His accusations came to everyone’s ears for their own amusement. But your services did not. People will appreciate you quieting him down and they will remember it.”

Surprised, Jean finds herself fumbling for words, but the Argonian seems pleased with her own, and so she simply nods, turns, and walks back towards the dining area, leaving Jean sluggishly pressing the door closed, and leaning to set the tray before Clare, who flicks her silver eyes up at her. 

Something dwells within them that Jean cannot place, and it sets her a little on edge.

”We leave immediately tomorrow, before the first light.” That being said, Clare stands, moves towards the bed and strips off her armor along the way. She, too, seems to give her weapon some thought before she sets it gently beside Jean’s turns to stare at the bed, and shifts onto the soft but worn furs. She situates herself the furthest in, right against the wall, and turns her back towards the rest of the bed.

Jean is left to her own devices for the night. The walls are thin enough that she can make out conversation in the next room and heavy footfalls. For nearly an hour she is still, listening to the exclusively faint breathing of her comrade. 

When Clare shifts, sits up, and looks Jean in the eye, she freezes in place and stands a little straighter.

”I can hear the gears in your head. Lie down before you drive me mad.”

A staring contest ensues, until Jean relents and finally moves away from the door, unclipping her armor straps, and letting them settle as softly and quietly to the floor as possible. The walk towards the bed seems impossibly long, and she expects it to be uncomfortable in comparison to the safety of her claymore. When she touches the bed and settles down beside Clare, back turned to her, she deems it comfortable enough. It competes well with leaning against her sword. The Argonian was correct in assuring her of the comfort and cleanliness of the room.

_Or it’s Clare that’s comfortable to lean against._

She cannot afford those kind of thoughts. The journey tomorrow will be long, and if Clare can hear her thoughts churning and grinding in her head, Jean fears what else she might pick up on. She falls into unconsciousness with the smell of lilacs and marshlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was great stress relief, and I will very likely be posting more. But it's wonderful to hear the opinions of readers, so please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment. Extra fuel.


	2. Latent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the reviews on this. I've been getting several comments that while the readers don't play the game, they're very interested in this. So at the end of every chapter I'm going to start posting 2-3 fun facts that relate to the chapter. This is different from my usual stories, which are very detail-thick, but I'm trying to pace this appropriately without dragging everything out especially endless walking on dirt roads.

In the morning, Clare stirs her awake and slips out of the bottom of the bed before Jean can blink her eyes open. There is seconds of disorientation, only because she fell so deeply into sleep, and she chastises herself as she stands and fumbles for the pieces of her armor. She is roaming her eyes about the room looking for things they may be leaving behind, listening to the soft tread Clare makes as she approaches the door and presses it open with protesting hinges. Her sword is already at her back and her hair is a little disheveled. It is one of the downsides to a bed. When she glances left, right, and then left again, Clare dips out of the room with Jean in tow, leaves a few more coins on the counter as well as the room key, and steps out into the brisk air and dead streets where only a lone Khajiit roams, eyes them with an ethereal green glow, and turns down a street.

They cannot see the horizon past the enormous walls of Leyawiin, but as soon as they exit the city’s gates the dark sky is awash in purple and a pinkish red at the lowest point in the horizon. The stars, Gods the stars, are still visible and scattered with points of deep clusters between the high full moons, Masser and Secunda. The deep lines of vibrant purple, beyond that of the horizon, that scar the sky have always given her childish wonder and the desire for the unknown.

Every night is no different, even on days when the void is further blanketed by a dead blackness and the moons seem smaller and farther away. They start on the Green Road north from Leyawiin, leaving behind its high garrisons and busy streets. Bypassing White Stallion Lodge, the glistening waters of the Lower Niben sit to their right, and more often than not, Jean is looking out past the waters to the foggy land on the other side.

Walking the muddy road and through winding trees, they come across the village of Water’s Edge. Jean does not think of it as much of a village. Three stone huts with straw roofing and unmortared walls line the left side of the road, though no inhabitants can be seen so early in the morning. The sheep roam closely to the huts in the sheepfold, eyeing the warriors with their knowing beady eyes, and bleating when they draw too close. Above them, the darkened limbs of scorched trees linger.

Jean steps over a dead fireplace with a burnt pot and they pass on as if they had never been.

Their footsteps are muffled against the soft marsh and worn dirt. A sleeping highwayman, a light sleeper surely, does not stir as they pass beyond the forked road where he lies in wait for the inevitability of a passing merchant. They do not bother with him. 

When the thick trees begin to split into several distinct trunks stemming from a single tree, and they pass by a niche section of the lake with a small bridge and a lone elf preparing his morning boat and fishing lines, and the horizon turns into a bold blaze, Jean knows they are a third of the way to Bravil by the sixth hour. They pass over a small, shoddy bridge where the rope creaks and, after so many decades of travel, Jean wonders how it has not collapsed beneath their collected weight. Marshlands fade into a bright forest. Off to the side, a bold stag stands hidden amongst the trunks and branches, unseen to the average human eye but Jean can make out the points of his horns from behind a grayed oak. The roads begin to wind and the trees thicken still. By the ninth hour Jean notes small sandy islands several yards from the water’s edge, trees decorating the center of them.

Jean knows they are close because a crumbling stone wall stands to their left with a cluster of decrepit ayleid ruins further up on the hill. As they walk by the wall, Jean runs her fingers along the dirtied cool stones where the sun has not yet touched them, and then rubs the earth along the pads of her thumb and forefinger. Tall trees, green grass, and cattails stand beside the water as they progress closer still. A drizzle has started up once more, and far ahead of them is the faint outline of a stone bridge.

On the bridge walks a lone traveler with their hood up, pacing themselves on a well-mannered Bay horse whose hooves click on the cobbled path. As the warriors approach, the stranger directs their horse to the other side of the road, and refuses to acknowledge either of them. 

Jean misses Leyawiin already.

They cross over the cobbled bridge hugged by enormous boulders and their footwear causes their feet to click much like the horse that had passed them. Beneath them, the Larsius River runs smoothly, leading to a massive sunken gate that is periodically opened, granting the citizens of the city access to the untamed waters. On the other side, the river empties into the vast Niben Bay.

The walls to Bravil are no less vast than those of Leyawiin, though the populace is one of the least wealthy in Cyrodiil. Inside the walls, crime rates have risen and houses are built atop one another. It is filthy and an odd smell lingers in the air consistently. Jean has had to watch her pockets at every passing moment when visiting the city and drunkards sit on most of the street corners, aggressive when coin is not thrown their way. The Skooma dens are unhindered. Passing the Bay Roan Stables, two guards side-eye them unabashedly throughout the duration of their passing. 

Jean is pleased to be able to continue on, and not bother to look back, though she has never minded stopping by the Lucky Old Lady statue.

They turn left to head further up The Green Road. Stark green fields and infinitely deeper forests await them. To the far, far northeast, they can see the dark shapes of jagged mountains. 

Hours in, Jean is taken by the deep valley of green to their left and the white wood trunks and the blooming clusters of thorn and berry bushes alike.

Another few hours later, as the sky has grown dark and the wolves sing in the dismal hills, the Inn of Ill Omen stands invitingly to their right. Jean is immediately reminded of the Khajiit they had met in the most southeast part of Cyrodiil. They do not need to stop. Jean has walked an endless three days against the worst of weather before. But something seems peculiar about the inn. Even from their position on the road, the inn steadily draws her attention, as focused on their objective as she is.

Clare shares the sentiment, because she has paused at the center of the road, and stares at the dead torchlight at the lonesome inn’s door.

Jean stands still until the other makes a decision, as she often is, and will continue to be. Like a marbled sentinel.

Clare looks back at her once, lingers her eyes for a few moments, and makes a decisive approach towards the Inn. When she reaches to push on the door, Clare immediately realizes that it is slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness peers back at her, and she feels more inclined to push her way in. They are, by all metaphorical means, the light to humanity’s darkness under the guise of She who they serve.

When the door is pressed open, a malodorous stench assaults them. Affronted by the magnitude of the smell, Clare steps backwards, bumping into Jean who has turned her head to the side. It is not something they are unused to. But it is not the freshest smell of death.

Jean reaches for the unlit torch on the outside of the door and lights it with the wave of a hand.

”Be careful with the flame,” Clare warns, and enters first.

Jean steels herself, takes a temporary-last breath of the wondrous outdoors, and follows in behind her companion. She nearly slips within the first couple of steps, and Clare is staring at her own feet as the light of the torch floods the room. Rivets of flesh decorate the floor, which is so awash with blood neither warrior cares to take a guess at the color of the floor beneath it. 

The bodies of civilians are scattered, their faces gnawed and eaten upon so fiercely their identities were lost. 

A horrific scene to those whose work does not dabble in the day to day dealings of murder and the necessities of darkness. Jean is initially puzzled by the lack of skeevers or ghouls, who are both largely drawn in by the presence of mortal death, until she sees a large furry body and a naked tail squeezing through a chewed hole in the wall, out of sight and away from the presence of the Claymores. 

Clare kneels closer to the ground, touching objects around the scene while Jean’s eyes follow the odd shapes and symbols carved into the walls in one area, and painted in blood in the next.

The first thing that comes to mind is necromancers. No, Jean reconsiders. Necromancers dealt with the undead. The enslavement and utilization of involuntary souls as well as their manifested physical forms. Mindless murder and the leaving of bodies was very unlike them. They at least cleaned up and made use of things. She moves to a window, shuttered with ragged pieces of hide and broken wood, and finds no evidence of forced entrance.

Clare stands up from the scene, bothering to have checked the pulse of the most in-tact looking individual, with no result.

Jean turns to her expectantly.

”There is nothing for us to do here. We should avoid the roads. Cut through the forest to the northwest. We can report this when we get to the Shrine.”

”The White Rose River,” Jean confirms, and cocks her head, eyes cast to the bodies. “These will attract fiends. Should we burn the bodies?”

”She would like us to. We don’t have the time, and being on time is more important. The less we are involved, the better.”

It’s an intelligent and fair point. Jean dips her head, and leads the way back out, snuffing out the torch in the dirt and setting it back into its place. They move on past the inn along the road for half a mile more before the next inn could be seen. In the distance between the trees, Jean spots the slightest sliver of light, and alerts Clare of its presence, who seemed far more distracted with picking a good path through the woods that would not land them in more trouble. The lit torch marks an Imperial on horseback. No unarmed citizen dares to brave the woods so late. They break off the path, quietly slipping into shrubbery and a mass of trees that swallow them in seconds.

The vast County of Skingrad is full of mountainous hills and deep pockets of vegetation and extensive wildlife. They stop at one of two tips of White Rose River to sate their need for water before pressing on. To the left, farther south, the wilds of The West Weald lie, bordering the Khajiit lands of Elsweyr and slightly further west, the elven lands of Valenwood. On the fifth day of stop and go travel and winding paths and struggling up steep hills, the pointed tips of Skingrad become visible. Over their heads, a hawk cheers.

Relief floods Jean’s system. They step onto the small portion remaining of the Gold Road that leads directly into Skingrad. Instead of entering the city, they take a path around the tall walls, passing a decimated Imperial Reserve and lush farmland. 

Skingrad makes her feel impossibly small. Massive and urban, Skingrad is divided into two sections by a large trench running through the city. As opposed to Bravil, Skingrad is one of Cyrodiil’s wealthiest. The lands around them are lush and vast, perfect for farming and vineyards that contribute to most of their wealth. The castles of the city rest on a massive hill, towering above the rest of the city, outside of its walls. The only access to the castle is a bridge connecting to the city.

On the other side of Skingrad, the Gratefull Pass Stables rest near the entrance, opposite of a prosperous farm. They collaborate on how many days have passed, and how close seventh seed is, before deciding to stop by the stables to purchase a meal.

Clare returns to Jean with apples and dried meat, and they share and see who can throw their apple cores the farthest as Skingrad’s walls shrink into the distance behind them.

They arrive at their destination by dusk after parting from the wood and traversing the foliage. The area is devoid of the usual followers, and the further common priest that lingers about the Shrine. An eerie silence lingers.

Meridia’s Shrine stands tall and profound in a partial clearing. A lone, worn bench sits before the massive statue of a woman in smoothly carved stone standing with her left foot forward, arms extended out in front of her with her fingers clasped together. Her eyes stare emptily forward, beyond the heads of the warriors at her base. Jean stops short several feet, looking up and studying the architecture. Surrounded by boulders, clusters of bushes, and newly blooming flowers in the glowing remains of the sun, Meridia’s Shrine gives life to her purpose.

An offering of the undead is given to gain the Daedric Prince’s attention, be it the head of a ghoul or the bone of a once-wandering skeleton.

Clare digs in a discreet bag on her back beneath her cloak and produces a small bowl. She offers it to Jean, to do the honors, and the other warrior accepts.

Clare kneels and bows her head behind Jean as she approaches the shrine. Standing before it, she slides the lid off a little, peering into the contents. Ectoplasm. From their recent venture, no doubt. The glowing mucus-like substance drizzled out from ethereal beings upon their defeat. She sets the bowl down at the base of the Shrine, and then steps back, assuming the same position Clare rests in.

Moments tick by with no result, and still they remain patient. 

Just as Jean was about to turn to Clare and question whether or not the ectoplasm would be deemed acceptable, a waned disembodied echo of a woman’s voice greets them. Throaty, domineering, though not unpleasant. It sends raw chills down Jean’s spine, though she could not explain just why.  
The words did not exist in her vocabulary.

She is the embodiment of life and light. The Lady of Infinite Energies. The enemy of all things undead, and the bane of any who dabble in necromancy, associated with the flowing energy of all living things. Jean has no cause for trepidation, yet still it pulses and pries in her mind’s eye.

**”By the detritus of the profane, I am brought forth. You have done well in your tasks, and thus have earned my gratitude. In the recent years, the practice of Necromancy has gone rampant. In spite of your glorified efforts, their numbers grow by the day, as do their undead armies. This is an unforgivable travesty. My rivals take great pleasure in their work, and encourage the presence of these foul creatures. The more you invade upon their sanctuaries, the more bold they seem to become. My influence is not yet broad enough. My light grows weaker by the day.”** The voice wanes, and Clare speaks.

”On the Green Road, we came across an inn. The inhabitants were slaughtered. We did not stall to investigate further.”

**”And you were righteous to do so. The task I have for you is far more dire, and will require assistance. Where there is light, there is also darkness, as you well know. Beyond the undead, I have many other enemies that take many other forms. Some actively strive to harm the living entities of this realm. One of them is Molag-Bal, Daedric Prince, Harvester of Souls, creator of Vampires. Far to the west, in the sea-bearing city of Anvil, it has come to my attention that the presence of vampires has been introduced to the city. To leave them alone absolutely will not do. They hide amongst the mortals well and carry great power, and if you lash out at them in public with no proof as to what they are, great misfortune will befall your kind. Two more warriors will greet you a mile before the city’s gates. You have three days to meet with them. Go with my blessing, and continue as the banes of the undead.”**

Before either of them can utter a confirmation of understanding, or even a question, the noticeable, almost overbearing presence dissipates. Jean finds that she can breathe easier. She wonders how well her lungs would fare in the personal presence of she, who gave them life and the power they had come to harness.

Beside her, Clare has stood, and she follows suit.

”Three days is not much time for that amount of distance. If we choose to travel beyond the means of a normal mortal, a lot of attention is going to be given to us.”

Jean is inclined to agree. She paws at the satchel on her side, rummages through what coin she has. “The stables in Skingrad. I have enough for one horse, if the prices haven’t changed.”

Clare nods, checks her own satchel, and scrunches her brows momentarily. With a small amount of silence, she turns on her heel and heads back towards the road. “We will see if we can make a deal with the stable owner. If not, one horse will have to do.”

* * *

When they reach the stables it is almost nightfall, and Jean runs ahead of Clare to catch the stable owner just before he retires inside. An elderly Orc with an unusual penchant for patience. Jean mentions vampire hunting, and a little haggling is needed before he grants them two horses for 1300 Septims, and as soon as the horses are saddled they part with his luck. 

Bay horses in Cyrodiil are not bred for endurance, but they harness exceptional speed and fair stamina. They run them on through the night until dawn, half way to the city of Kvatch. They stop along a stream and replenish their water supply, allowing their garrons two hours of rest and grazing before they move on, albeit at a slower pace than before. 

When their lengthy day meets its near end, Kvatch can be seen from their vantage point, and they stall in the middle of the road, looking out beyond the vast forest. Kvatch sits proudly atop a large bluff with newer looking walls than most cities. If Jean recalls correctly, towards the end of the Third Era, the city had been overrun by Daedra in the Oblivion Crisis. A plot by a Daedric Prince who, in the simplest terms, opened portals into the world of Nirn with the intent to overtake it. Its castle is imposing, even from a distance. Greenery and foliage, once burnt and decimated, is flourishing around the city.

They pass it by in silence.

When they are beyond the long winding road leading up to the gates of Kvatch, they stop again to tie the horses up, unsaddle them, brush them down as best they can and to stab their weapons into the soft bountiful soil for a few hours of rest.

On the third day, Anvil is in their sights.

Jean is fond of Anvil. Its people have been interesting as long as she can remember, and the sunset splayed across the endless Abecean Sea gives her a sense of bliss, if such a thing existed in such hard times. Its port hauls in delicacies and exotics from farther lands. The Gold Coast lives up to its name. Anvil is one of the smaller cities, but certainly a marvel of withstanding architecture and salt washed stone. The city is decorative and proud of their several-story high buildings. Beyond the buildings however, the docks show more function than decor.

She clicks her tongue and squeezes her legs and the horse whickers, starting down the hill and into a sandy road.

They move only a few feet before a flash of movement to their left spooks the horses. Clare’s rears, and Jean struggles to keep hers from losing its wild footing. When Jean succeeds in maintaining the creature’s upset behavior, she looks back to Clare and finds a broadsword to her throat. Her hand twitches violently, and yet she refrains from drawing her own sword, instead glowering a little at the owner of the other one.

”You two are putting yourself in a lot of risk on these things. They’re unpredictable, and unsteady.”

”So are you sometimes,” Clare retorts, momentarily phased but she soon shares a shadow of Jean’s burning stare.

”Now and then I would prefer the company of a horse.” Deneve steps past a cluster of bushes, and Helen barks out a laugh, pushing her sword back into its place.

”Don’t lie. You love me.”

”I thought you two were down in Valenwood,” Jean says.

”Had our own vampire hunt down there. Chased him all the way from the Colonial Highlands. We’re all warmed up for the next one.” Helen grins, and stretches her arms up. “What are you going to do with those anyway?”

Jean looks down at the horse that shifts beneath her.

”Can’t very well return them,” Clare pats hers on the neck. “We’ll have them stabled. They’re easier to traverse the roads with.”

”No one _says_ you have to use the roads.”

”No one says we have to hide from every mortal eye on the continent and wade our way through trees so thick we have to squeeze our bodies through them, getting turned around three times in the process and picking brambles out from the oddest spots of our skin fitted clothes, _either_.” Deneve folds her arms, giving Helen a very tired look.

Jean can only imagine how tired she must be, tracking a Vampire through that much of the land and into another territory. Which had heavy border patrol, in recent events. In spite of their nap just hours prior, exhaustion seeps into her own bones. She looks out towards the city yearningly, and Clare’s horse steps past her.

”We should get to the city. The sooner we can secure a place to stay, the sooner we can start and be done with it.”

Clare has already dismounted, and is leading the creature along the dirt path. So Jean follows suit, and does the same, unlooping the reigns and using them as a lead. A skeptical, curious Helen requests temporary ownership of the lead, so Jean hands them over easily, and the warrior attempts bonding by poking at the creature’s soft snout.

The walk is thick with silence, albeit comfortable with each one at ease in the other’s familiar presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Nirn is the planet they occupy. Tamriel is an entire continent. Cyrodiil, which Jean and Clare are in now, is basically the heart of the separate provinces that make up Tamriel where the different races meet and mix the easiest. It’s primarily home to the Imperials, which are the closest to “normal” humans by our terms.
> 
> Fun fact: I love the Khajiit. They’re super interesting. Nirn is orbited by two moons; Masser and Secunda. Masser is the larger moon. Khajiit are basically like humanoid cats, since I didn’t explain it that well, but they actually take a vast amount of forms that are solely dependent on the cycle of the moons. They range from very human-looking with only mild cat attributes and twisted features to giant cats that other Khajiit can ride into battle. I.e. Two generic khajjit (the most common, very feline-like with a humanoid body) can bear an enormous Khajiit based on the moon. They can even appear to be regular cats. I recommend looking at the Khajiit page on the elder scrolls wiki, all the way at the bottom. There’s a comprehensive chart on what phases of the moon contribute to what.
> 
> Fun fact: Daedric Princes actually have no gender, but they are all called Princes nonetheless, and many of them choose a form to represent themselves by. Meridia is represented as a female. Molag-Bal a male. Some alternate their gender and switch as they please.


	3. Discretion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an epiphany where like. I'm not restricted by game mechanics. Or how the cities of Cyrodiil look. Because this is centuries from the game itself. And that realization of freedom was empowering.

As the city grows in her sights, so too does the raw, awakening smell of the sea. A band of Khajiit have made camp outside of the massive walls - currently in the process of reconstruction. The salt wears the stone thin. One female perks up at the sight of them, and gestures to the others, pointing at Helen, who had come to head the group; the horse she leads has a quick pace.

An older male, white with deep black stripes marring his face, and equally deep scars approaches them. Broad tufts of fur shape each side of his eager face. His accent is thick, and Jean has to struggle to make out his words. The common tongue is not his forte, but he does quite well nonetheless. She suspects they recently ventured from Elsweyr, perhaps looking for new means in their adventurous lives.

He looks Jean’s horse over appraisingly, then spots Clare’s, and looks it over.

”For buy? These two? How many?” The Khajiit is digging in his pouch for Septims, and Helen stalls, looking to Jean and waving the reigns at her.

”Fa janto,” Deneve replies, after sharing a suggestion with Clare.

Jean snaps her head to Deneve’s direction, hiking her brows upwards. The warrior was, for the most part, a stranger to her apart from minuscule information and an exchange of names and a shared glass of ale or two. Still, hearing her speak Ta’agra, the native language of the Khajiit culture, was stunning.

The Khajiit seems just as astonished, but falls comfortably into conversation with the warrior. Their exchange is short, and both reigns are handed over for a thousand Septims. The Khajiit, and those behind him, seem ecstatic. Normal rates considered, he had gotten away with a free horse, and Clare and Jean are unburdened from the lives of dependent animals after they had been of use.

”I was attached to that nose,” Helen remarks, with a sigh, and Deneve removes the warrior’s arm from around her shoulders.

Anvil is in their sights, and Jean is itching to step past the gates and begin their hunt. Vampires are fickle creatures, and though they have been introduced to the city, there is no telling for how long, or to what extent, and for every night that passes the victims will tally.

They step past the guards, ignoring their hard gazes, and shoulder their way through the gates. Bustling streets greet them, and Jean pulls the hood of her cloak up, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed they are. Her comrades behind her shadow the movement. The air is chilly, and several curious glances are thrown their way, but no more. Travelers of all shapes and origins are a commodity. A vampire would go entirely unnoticed.

”We should split up again, get comfortable with the town. By dusk we can meet at the inn and collaborate our findings,” it is Deneve who makes the suggestion.

Clare steps in close to Jean. “That sounds good. Jean and I will take the west portion, and investigate the docks and lighthouse.”

When she feels her heart threatening to stutter, she takes a measured breath; her expression the picture of neutral. She feels ridiculous. Out of the corner of her eye, Helen gives her a lengthy look, so she keeps her stare trained on Deneve.

”We’ll look into the Count’s castle as much as we can, then.” Without another word, Deneve turns on her heel, and begins moving down the street. 

Helen bounces after her and slings an arm around her shoulders again, hooting about their “grand hunt”, and Deneve elbows her _hard_.

Jean looks on after them, until she realizes that the familiar heat of the other can no longer be felt, when she scans around her, Clare is walking quickly in the opposite direction that Deneve and Helen had moved off in. Jean takes long strides to catch up to her, which is none too difficult. She does have a slight height advantage. When she comes within two feet of the other warrior, she matches her pace, and trails behind her. She watches her companion’s back, studying the ends of her hair, the business-like aesthetic of her stride.

When Clare turns her head to the side to study a few signs, Jean corrects her gaze and looks up at the stacked buildings. Much has changed in the centuries past the Oblivion Crisis. Crumbling, salted buildings have been rebuilt with more resilient stone, higher than they once were, and the streets are crammed with all walks of life. The architect is still heavily influenced by the dark-skinned Redguards, and every bit of their skill and prowess shows in the details of the houses and the etching in the well traveled streets. In the few minutes it takes them to reach the next part of the town, she spies a trio of female Altmer - high elves with an unusual penchant for ragged fur armor and exquisitely crafted bows. They haggle with a broadly built Nord, likely on the prices of the furs they are offering to trade for a stock of silver-tipped arrows.

One of them catches Jean’s stare, and scowls deeply, clearly finding offense in her prying eyes. 

She presses her hood further over her face, and nearly tramples Clare, who has stopped right in the middle of the road. 

Ahead, right before the harbor gates, a man stands in the way. His eyes are wild, his hair disheveled, and his ears pointed, though he is short and his skin is tanned. Jean steps to Clare’s side, if only to get a better view. A Bosmer; the horns on his head are small, but pointed. He is ranting fervently, and both warriors approach closer to hear him clearly. Fear is not his vice, but anger and defiance.

”- And the weak would be punished by the strong! We sacrifice the wretched in his name! The ground will be awash in mortal blood, turning to sludge beneath his hooves. The sky, alight in fire. The highest peaks of Skyrim will pale to the air turned freezing by his very breath. The restless death will soon come upon the world!”

His tone grows more desperate as the city guard begin pushing past the growing crowd. Jean moves aside for one.

”Molag-Bal, whose sphere is the wanton oppression and entrapment of mortal souls, sought to thwart Arkay -,” the guards reach him, and his voice raises to a shout when one grabs for his wrists, another slipping behind him to get a fistful of his hair. They shove him down into the ground and hold him there, one of them motioning to another for bindings. The Bosmer struggles violently.

”Who knew not that man, nor mer, nor - agh - beastfolk, of all Nirn could escape eventual death! The Aedra,” a gag is stuffed into his mouth, his hands bound far too tightly. The guards hoist him up, shout at people to move on, and shove their way past people into the backstreets towards the Castle.

Some persistent, rowdy individuals follow after them against their best interest, and in the wake of the Bosmer’s ranting, silence ensues for only seconds before people begin to move on with their lives. Several look bewildered and speak amongst themselves. Others, who appear to be residents of the town, look irritated, unperturbed. 

Jean wonders if the outbursts are a commodity. They have much to uncover in the town. They need answers.

”That sounded scripted. Or recited,” Clare comments, and begins to continue the walk towards the harbor gates. They had been closed to keep a bigger crowd from forming around the forest elf, but the guards are churning the massive gates open again for the traffic on the other side. Several non-plussed sea-faring Argonians irritably pick up massive crates of fish, and enter the city murmuring to one another beneath their breath. Jean catches a few crude jests about the guardsmen. They must have a captain they work under.

”There should be a library here. Or people who have been around a long time. Two strangely dressed strangers asking questions is going to attract some amount of attention, though, and we don’t have any kind of description for our targets.”

Clare leads them into a small district right before the gates. To their right is a clothing and armory store. Clare props open the door.

Puzzled, Jean follows. Inside, a female Orc and Breton have yet to notice their entrance. Their backs are to the door, and they fret over a slate of ebony chainmail.

Clare motions for Jean to stay at the door, but not before looking her over, and assessing her far too carefully for the taller warrior’s general comfort.

Even a quirked brow doesn’t get her answers just yet. Clare muses over various breast plates and greaves. The female Orc takes notice and jerks away from the ebony as if it had shocked her, and she steps over to where Clare is. Before she can bother to listen in, the Breton approaches her.

”Good evening. Can I help you with a selection?”

Jean turns her head to her, a little surprised. The Breton’s eyes are a forest of green, and her unkempt brown hair sticks up at odd ends and shelters some of the impossibly deep green from her view. Her smile is vibrant, her body thin and small, and she holds her hands behind her back like an apprehensive child. Jean is a good foot and a half taller than her.

It takes her a few seconds to find her voice. “No, my companion is the one browsing.”

The Breton looks over at the others, hums, and beams in her uncommonly nordish tone. “They look like they’re gonna be a while. Rolfish has far too much the eye for detail and consistency to let anyone shop quickly. Come!” She reaches over, grabs Jean’s hand, and begins to pull her to the opposite side of the store, towards the cloaks and boots.

She’s touchy. Jean is unsure how to feel.

The Breton tugs lightly at the bottom of her white cloak, her freckled nose wrinkling. “Torn, thin at the bottom, dirty. This wouldn’t do much for you in the colder season. I can sort of see why you’ve ignored the condition. You should take it off, try this one.” She stands on her toes, holding a thick brown cloak up.

Jean stands still, staring.

They stay as they are for several moments, before the Breton rocks down onto her heels. “C’mon. Not like you’re naked under there. Not like I’d mind.” She laughs, fully at first, and then nervously when Jean gives no reaction. Her confident expression melts into apprehension, and a little regret. “Ah. Rolfish keeps telling me I should stop being so straightforward with customers. Last week, a really cute Imperial girl-.”

Jean stops her mid-sentence simply by moving. She raises her arms up to the hood on her cloak, and pulls it down, moving to the faded button and unhooking it in order to remove the attire. She stares unabashed at the shop assistant with her silver gleaming eyes.

The Breton audibly inhales, as soft as it is, Jean wonders if she just made a grave mistake. The woman looks as if she wants to turn tail and run, or throw the cloak she holds so tightly her knuckles have whitened, or simply fall backwards. But she stands still, looking up at Jean’s impassible face, before slowly, very gradually, her eyes slide downwards. She snaps her eyes upwards, and the fear gradually drains from her eyes to be replaced with resolve. Her voice is shaken, and so are her hands, but she resumes, and tries to seem as if nothing was different from before.

”This one ties. There’s a way you can tie it really well - an easy but uncommon knot, I could show you. Or not. Or would you like one with a button? Or a different color - I - I,” Jean stops the other’s rambling by kneeling down onto one knee. The change in height gets the Breton to visibly relax, though she holds the cloak close.

Jean drops hers to the floorboards, and keeps her voice neutral. “I prefer my attire to match. Dark goes well with the silver of my plating.”

The girl nods once, and turns her back to Jean, grabbing another cloak and holding it up, looking from Jean, back to it, and then approaches the warrior. Her footsteps are lighter than before.

”What’s your name?” Jean asks, to lighten the atmosphere she has created, as the Breton flips the cloak around the shoulders of the silver-eyed female, clasping it in the front with shaking fingers.

Under Jean’s scrutiny, a red tint is visible on the Breton’s cheeks. Stress? The heat from the room? Jean stands, and looks down, assessing its length.

”Lirille,” she murmurs, a finger pressed against her chin. Her brows are drawn down as she assesses Jean.

Jean, personally, is surprised by how quickly the Breton has absorbed her own shock. She had expected to be cast out from the shop. She suspects the girl focuses on the aesthetic of the attire as a way to cope.

”What’s yours?”

”Jean.”

”That’s pretty. And so is that cloak. On you, I mean, in general it’s pretty plain. Really plain. But black suits. It brings out your eyes - but oh, aaah - maybe that’s not a good thing... I mean to me, I don’t totally care. But other people do. But they shouldn’t!”

”It’s fine,” Jean replies, rubbing the fabric between her fingers, and Lirille smiles a little, shifting her feet - bare feet - against the wood floor. The red on her cheeks has spread, and the girl must notice the heat of them, because she’s rubbing her palm against one side and clearing her throat and adverting her eyes.

Peculiar.

Jean parts her lips to prompt a question, but a touch to her shoulders causes her to jerk slightly, and whip her head to the right.

Clare stands there vacantly, removing her hand and gesturing to the other side where the Orc stands, lenient and patient despite her molten gold eyes being trained onto Jean; unreadable, unnerving.

Clare does not question the revelation of her identity. “I need you to come over so she can measure you better.”

Jean follows her, looking to the assortment of armor, Lirille too close behind her for her own personal sense of comfort. “Why are we buying armor? What we have now suits just fine.”

Clare does not grace her with an answer. She stands with her arms folded.

Rolfish stares the both of them down for a few tense, silent moments before she turns to retrieve a long rope. “You stand like a soldier,” she comments, kneeling to measure the length of the warrior’s leg from ankle to hip, then from him to just above the knee, just below the knee to ankle.

”Should I slouch?”

”No,” despite the unfriendly tone, Rolfish smirks, her large canines sticking out boldly from thick lips. The tip of the left tooth is broken.

Jean begins to take in her appearance. Long brown braids that trail against the floor when she crouches, and far down the expanse of her muscular back. Her clawed hands are deft and practiced, but not nearly as calloused as Jean’s, as she would have expected. Scars mar her arms, and one separates her left eyebrow all the way down her face. Jean suspects that is how her tooth got broken. Jean is tall, but the Orc is a good deal taller than she is. Her hands are large enough to circle the warrior’s neck easily.

”Paint a portrait,” the Orc grunts as she stands. 

Lirille picks up Jean’s arm and hoists it above her head, and Rolfish takes the measurement.

”Hope both your arms are the same length.”

”I would hope so too,” Jean remarks, as Lirille lets her arm down, and lingers a hand on the warrior’s bicep for a moment before removing it.

The Orc looks to the Breton, snorts, and turns tail to write down the measurements. “Yeah... Yeah, we’ve got these sizes in stock. Silver? That looks good with the black cloak. Give me a minute.” Taking the parchment with her, Rolfish disappears into the back behind a shoddy buck skin, but not before peeking her head out, giving a very pointed and knowing look to the Breton, and ducking back out of sight. 

Clare looks to Jean, dropping her eyes to Lirille for just a moment. ”I’ll inform you of the purpose of this once we are outside.”

The Breton pretends not to pay attention.

When Rolfish returns, she is holding armor plating and buckles in her arms as if they were nothing, and she dumps it on the counter and begins arranging it. “Remove the armor you already have on.”

With a glance to Clare, who stares expectantly, Jean obeys, loosening the straps of her armor and removing the breastplate. She does not yet own greaves, but she removes her vambraces. While kneeling to remove her sabatons, she is tossed a pair of simple black boots.

”Those are on the house.” Rolfish moves for the breastplate on the table; well-crafted silver, sturdy, and not bulky. 

When it’s set over her chest, it fits snugly, and quite perfectly, giving slim form to her stomach and feeling almost malleable, none too stiff. Is it silver? She runs her fingers over the metal, pressing, taking a deep breath and shifting.

”It’s a specialty metal. Composed of different minerals of kin appearance,” Rolfish explains. “It’s what we’re known for. Mixing and crafting.”

”You don’t seem to have much business,” Clare says.

”We recently moved from Valenwood. Business there wasn’t... Amicable.” Lirille clenches her jaw, searching for the right words. “We’re trying to get established here. We barely opened a couple days ago. Figured the sea would give us good traffic. We just have to get the word out.”

”Which is why you’re getting such a good deal.” Rolfish finishes tying the greaves on Jean’s thighs, tugs hard on the vambrace straps. She steps heavily on one of Jean’s boots, who is unflinching. “How does that feel? There’s sturdier metal underneath the leather. Steel-toed. You’re a little long-limbed, but these are only short by an inch if not less. It should do fine. I would’ve taken the time to make it more custom, but your partner is in a rush.” She shoots a look to Clare who carefully avoids it, and digs in her satchel for Septims. She hands them over to the shop keep, who pockets it after only a glance at the sum. “I appreciate the tip.”

”You’re welcome. And thank you, we will spread word of your shop in the week we are here. We’ll be going now.” Clare turns on her heel, and Jean goes to follow suit as she pulls the black hood up, but Rolfish takes three large strides and stands between them and the door to freedom. 

She leans in close, wrinkles her broad nose as if their scent is deeply offensive, and her gaze gains severity. “The Countess hates your kind. She catches wind of a house, a shop, an inn you’re visiting and she would sooner burn it to the ground with everyone inside than let you walk out of it. Watch yourselves, and keep your heads down. I don’t know what you’re looking for, you only appear when you’re looking for something, but don’t snoop too far. Mystery is inviting but it swallows. Some things are best left alone.”

Clare meets the molten gaze unflinchingly. In the depths of the silver there is agitation and hostility, before there is understanding and coolness. A bucket of reason douses the flame of indignance. “Again, thank you. I was unaware of the Countess’ opinions. We hope to stay no longer than a week, and she will be posing as my body guard. After all, I’m simply a blind girl traversing the town with a hunger for knowledge.”

Rolfish looks between them, and grins a little. “Mmh, a quick flash of your eyes could be mistaken for blindness here. Would be a good reason to hide your eyes, but what about her?” She jerks her chin at Jean, and when no answer is given, she reaches towards a stand. She picks up an ebony crafted helm in the shape of a snarling wolf, approaches Jean, and shoves it over her head. The top of the wolf’s mouth can be shifted up, revealing surprised eyes down to part of her mouth. “This is bad for combat. Hard to see everything. It’s more made for intimidation and looks. Consider it a parting gift for the generous tip, and because if you get caught I don’t want them to tie you back to here. While I’m too big for the hanging galley, Lirille isn’t. So get out.”

Jean can already tell she means well, despite the tone, and what she has given them is indeed generous. Clare pulls her own hood down a little farther, and they slip out of the shop, the door closed behind them.

Clare turns around, closes the mouth of the glowering wolf helm, and then proceeds to link her arm with Jean’s. “I’m sure you know how to behave like a body guard. We’ll investigate the wharf, and keep our ears open.”

Jean murmurs and echoed, hollow “understood,” and leads Clare through the open gate.

She does a marvelous job of acting blind, keeping one unsteady hand out for balance, occasionally seeming to be unsure of her footing, and having Jean redirect them several times. The harborside is bubbling with conversation, footsteps, and bustling business. A smaller marketside has opened along the wharf, offering more rare goods from beyond the far line of the sea’s horizon. Jean catches herself eyeing a stand offering simmering meat and foods that remind her strongly of _home_. A thought that should have been long buried, long banished from her mind. Home no longer exists. Home has almost never existed. She has no memory of anything apart from the general locations of her origin, and the certain scents that send her plummeting into a pang of familiar nostalgia for something she never had. 

It’s a bewildering feeling.

She’s distracted enough to brush against a High Elf, one of two who spiraled into a heated debate over foreign politics. The one she had brushed against snarls as he turns to her, and it lessens once he assesses her size and general demeanor. Ever a proud race, it does not deter him from his choice words.

”Are you as blind as the girl you’re leading around? Don’t touch me you fucking milk drinker. Has your helm impacted the shape of your brain?”

His associate is pulling him away, while Clare is pulling her in the opposite direction before she can open her mouth for a reply. As distance is put between them, Jean keeps her ears attuned to the duo.

”I think your _ego_ has impacted the size of your brain. This city isn’t safe anymore. He looks like he could have picked you up by your neck and tossed you into the harbor.”

Jean thought about it, being honest with herself. She had barely brushed him.

She tugs on Clares arm to help her avoid an Argonian with far too many crates in his arms, unable to see over the top and barely able to see around them. Their collision certainly would have caused some amount of chaos.

Jean glances at the smaller warrior, and wonders if her acting is gaining a bar of efficiency, or if she is actually struggling to see from beneath her hood.

Or, she’s making Jean do some extra work. Jean would not put it past her to show a little mischievousness. 

The walk the wharf for hours until the sky begins to fade, pretending to be interested in various goods, buying a few for authenticity. Clare took a break on a bench simply so Jean could meander towards several individuals belonging to a sea crew and chat with them. 

The crew of a pirate, she had come to discover, which were not unwelcomed as long as they followed city law and provided a certain amount of goods to the city’s economy. They had ale in hand and were so easy going they did not mind Jean’s interruption in the slightest when she asked about rumors in the town; even more easy going when she spoke and they determined her to be female. 

A female Khajiit with little appreciation for clothing seemed positively infatuated with her, and made it obvious. The lack of a shirt was stunning. She remembers hearing something about Khajiit finding the baring of their stomachs to be unacceptable. But many whispers about the Khajiit hold little truth.

”This one, who is one of few, finds the sea freeing and refreshing. It does not bother this one’s fur, either.”

”You were just complaining about that yesterday,” a Dark Elf interjects, smirking. He inhales deeply from a pipe, and blows it at the Khajiit

The Khajiit flattens her ears, and slaps the Dark Elf on the arm. “Untrue! It was irritating an uncovered wound this one had.” She returns her attention to Jean, flicking her tail against the warrior’s thigh, and showcasing the bandaged gash on her arm, flexing. “From an Ice Wraith. This one fought it off with her own claws.”

The obvious flirting causes the corner of Jean’s lip to twitch, unseen by the inquisitive party before her. “That’s impressive.”

”You look like you could move crates like no other,” the Dark Elf says, ignoring the chance to further tease and debunk the Khajiit’s bold tale. “Or give serious enough scares to attract a potential contract from a big coin. Why lead around a blind girl like an obedient dog?”

”I am honor-bound to do so.”

The Dunmer and Khajiit share a look, but a deep tone of criticism comes from a thick bodied Orc, who seems to be studying his empty bottle as he speaks.

”I have only seen honor get people killed. We’ll honor the dead for dying in our war while we sit at the table moving the pieces. You can die in this honorable, pointless combat. You can die honorably for me protecting my stupid ass from a massive creature while I run for it.” He snorts, then spits. “I don’t understand honor. I understand survival and living a meaningful life.”

”I should be dead right now,” Jean states plainly, and without much emotion. It catches all of their attentions. “I owe her my life. And I intend to repay it in full, at any cost.”

The Orc opens his toothy mouth, as if to provide another point to her view, but seems to consider his point moot, and instead grunts, shaking his head. “To each their own, I suppose. But you’re missing out. We just got back from a long voyage. If you want to hear better rumors, I suggest heading to a tavern. Don’t pick out someone too drunk, they’re likely to embellish any tale for attention, but you at least seem smart enough to know that. I’m turning in for the night.”

Jean turns on her heel before the others can draw her further into conversation, and makes a quick approach to Clare, touching her shoulder. Clare stands, and locks her arm with Jean’s, and the latter leads them back down the wharf as guards begin to light torches along the stone and mortar. 

Clare does not question her as they walk, weaving through the trickling crowd.

Just as an inn, the one promised by all four to meet back at, is in her sights, someone calls her and Clare’s names loudly, and with much agitation.

She turns her head, having to angle it a little to see properly, and bears witness to a hooded figure sprinting vigorously through the crowd, shoving people out of their way and slipping past two very startled mares, who begin kicking and making more of a scene.

So much for discretion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Anvil has a very large and active trade industry of both legal and illegal goods, due to its connections to continents across the sea and its ability to connect ships from all across its own continent. A huge portion of the town caters directly to sailors. Ironically it's one of Cyrodiil's smaller cities. Dockside is populated by a lot of different races, and Khajiit and Argonians are generally rarely seen. But hey, sometimes work is hard to find and unpacking ships pays decent. The current Countess, like the one centuries ago, is very well respected and liked by her people.
> 
> Fun fact:The origin of the vampire species is largely unknown, but an old tome suggests that Molag Bal indirectly created them, and many vampires worship him. Vampirism can affect all races, so it's not a specific race itself, but a vampiric form of various sentient species. After infection, transformation occurs, causing skin to grow pale or grey, and the individual's eyes to become red (argonians and khajiit eyes turn white). But the appearance of their transformation can go entirely unnoticed as long as they consume blood regularly, allowing them to coexist seamlessly with the races as long as their blood habit isn't discovered. They are immortal and cannot be killed by old age or starvation, but decades of starvation will cause a vampire to become feral.
> 
> Fun fact: There are three distinct elven races. Altmer (High elves) from the Summerset Isles. Bosmer (wood elves) from Valenwood. Dunmer (Dark elves) from Morrowind. Altmer are generally excessively tall, and have a very proud heritage. Bosmer have a deep connection with wildlife and nature, and though it is not shown in the game (since bethesda is lazy) they have small horns. Dunmer are known to be very intelligent and strong, but ill-favored by fate. There is a lesser race of elves, all in Skyrim, called Falmer. Falmer were once a very powerful race of Snow Elves, graced with vast wisdom. They were, with little chance of survival, enslaved by Dwemer, and decades of slavery in cramped caves with blinding poison caused them to be a sick, twisted, feral race with little other desire than to decimate the surface world.
> 
> Fun fact: I keep referencing the Oblivion Crisis, because it was a major historical event in Cyrodiil. It's also known as the Time of Gates. It was fought by the Empire of Tamriel and the Gates of Oblivion in the Third Era. The crisis affected all parts of Tamriel despite taking place in the center area, Cyrodiil. It was sparked by the assassination of Emperor Uriel Septim VII. Normally, the realms of Oblivion and Mundus are divided by a magical barrier that is impassable by both Daedra and mortals. The barrier only exists with the presence of a Septim on the Throne of Cyrodiil and while the Dragonfires are burning. With the last Septim Emperor and his only three heirs dead, the Daedric Prince of Destruction was granted a means of access to the mortal world via the Oblivion Gates, and was able to enter onto Nirn along with the Daedric Forces of Destruction to invade Tamriel. Uriel had one last hidden son named Martin Septim. He recovered the Amulet of Kings, and long story short he turned into a giant dragon and defeated the Daedric Prince.


	4. Spinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little shorter than the others. I've been having trouble getting back into it, but felt I at least had to finish for the Claymore fanfic day. So here it is.

Helen runs towards them in a panic Jean has never yet witnessed. At breakneck speed, she is a blur to the average eye, kicking up resting water in an uneven part of the streets.

Behind her, the hardened shouts of men rise above the common street chatter and conversations. 

Jean’s pulse starts, and moving up the muzzle of the metallic wolf, just enough to see, her wild eyes search for a route of escape. Rolfish’s previous warnings flood her mind, and the realization comes that sending their comrades right into the mouth of the Countess’ lair may have been a grave error.

Deneve is not with her.

The guards are surprisingly quick in their bulky armor, and before Jean can move, they’re flanked by a small squadron of them, and Helen is jerked back by her hood. She fights fiercely, kicking her legs up until the guards press their weight down upon her, holding her against the ground and leaving her heaving for precious air. The weapon that was once on her back sinks into mud near the stables.

Clare does not move an inch, so Jean stills the urge to grapple for her own weapon, and tries to remain calm despite witnessing her comrade being assaulted mere feet away. The guards make sure they have little chance for escape, surrounding them, and the leader speaks in a gravely, harsh fashion. Enough to gain her attention fully.

”The witch called out to you, ran straight for you. You Silver-Eyes as well?”

”My Lady is blind. She has wished to venture this city from her own, now that she is old enough. I am simply a means of protection. We do not know the Silver-Eyed woman.” Jean grimaces at herself. Her words sound crisp and scripted.

The guard looks between them, unconvinced, and ready to reach for Clare’s hood. Jean beats him to it, lifts up the hood and sets it down quickly. A flash of Clare’s face, and nothing more.

”My Lady does not wish to show off her appearance. You would be in the wrong to force her, to do so would incur the wrath of the Count of Kvatch. You may be Captain, but she is royalty.”

This causes hesitation among them. The head of them looks back to his comrades, then to those who still wrestle with Helen. “Remove your helm.”

”I am unable to in the public eye. That would defile my Lady’s will and my oath.” She stands a little taller, a little more defiantly. 

The guardsman’s jaw tightens, and he becomes a little red in the face, from what little of his face she can see. “We will escort you to the Countess from here. Should you decline, we will have reason to bring you in with force. She can speak with you and claim truth, or lies before the countenance of the Gods.” He sneers as he finishes, barks orders to his comrades. 

One guard moves to usher Jean along, and when she cocks her head towards him, towering above him as she does, he removes his hand, and she leads Clare along at their pace, stiff and mind churning almost too quickly to sort her thoughts. Clare’s grip on her arm briefly tightens, and Jean takes it as reassurance simply because she needs it. 

* * *

The castle of the Countess does little to exceed or even meet her expectations.

The broad banners of Anvil trail down along the sides of the massive oak doors in the pattern of the shields that most guards carry. A light brown background with silver three pointed figures that alternate in an up and down pattern horizontally across the material, repeating all the way down.

It is one of the few castles across Cyrodiil that has been built outside of the city walls. They cross a stone bridge in order to reach it, her own footsteps silent while Clare clinks beside her.

The castle rests on an island, sheltered by boulders and a single thin drooping tree, and it is not the most fantastic castle she has seen. She doubts that, unlike much of the city, the castle has been rebuilt at all in too long a time. 

She would dare to say that it’s disappointing, and has clearly seen better days.

She is not sure what they have done to Helen. Jean listens for the footsteps behind her, and they sound slow and uneven. Either they had subdued her, or she has settled down to come along at her own volition. The amount trust of Helen places into Clare is astounding.

Though, Jean can say that for herself as well. 

A lone guard is stationed at the massive doors, and as soon as they finish crossing the bridge, the guard pounds her fist hard against the doors, and they begin to split open.

Inside, the halls are dimmed significantly, and few open flames light the corridors just enough to prevent stairs from becoming a hazard. A broad red rug - wide enough to allow four people to walk side by side comfortably - leads up to two embellished thrones, each flanked by iron and near smoldering embers. Both thrones are empty.

”Keep them here. I have something to take care of. **You** , fetch the Countess.” The lead guardsman dishes out orders, sneers at Helen, then Jean and Clare before marching down a hallway to their right. 

A stewardess begins tending to the embers for the Countess’ arrival. 

When Helen wheezes a little, and Jean’s acute ears pick up on a few drips of fluid as muffled as they are from beyond her enclosed helm, she goes to cast a look behind her, and is berated by a guard for moving. 

”Eyes forward,” he says, and she obeys, if only to spare them further scrutiny. They’re in muddy waters deeper than the marsh, and Jean hopes that they do not sink.

A mob of civilians with pitchforks have been known to be just as dangerous as the undead beings they have devoted their life to pursuing. It would be a disappointing way to perish. Though she has given her life to the woman beside her, she is not yet ready to meet her end. All the Countess would need to do would be to bare them to the public and get them to rally. No one would mourn the loss of them, and after a few days their termination would be forgotten in the daily hustle of life. 

It took her a little while to notice, the shuffling of chains being what brought her attention to him; an Argonian kneels by one of the walls, his back scales black and the front of his body a deep red. He watches them intensely with golden, slit eyes. His gaze switches to the comrade behind her.

When a door screams open at the top of one of two sets of stairs on either side of the thrones, his eyes flick up fearfully before he bows his spined head, and hunkers down.

The Countess is... Surprisingly captivating for her age.

She’s an Imperial, which comes as no surprise to Jean. Her long, braided locks are darker than the shadows threatening to consume the room. When her eyes wash over them, Jean gets an uncomfortable, unnatural chill. Her gaze holds obvious power. She impresses far more than her castle does.

Hands folded in front of herself, she descends the stairs, never once taking her emerald eyes off of them. Her lavish crimson dress, trimmed with golden threads, and low enough to bare a valley of cleavage, trails along the stone steps behind her as she descends without an ounce of haste.

She reaches the two thrones, feebly seating herself on the left where the Count would normally sit.. Several moments pass by in contemplative silence.

Jean strains to hear what is going on behind her. 

”What have you brought me?” The Countess finally asks, splaying her hands, quirking a brow.

”M’Lady,” a female guard begins, taking a knee before the Countess, as many other guards do. “We have brought you a the Silver-Eyed Witch per your request, and-.”

”I meant the other two,” the Countess waives her hand to dismiss the comment. “And there were two witches. I specifically requested both of them. Where is the other? Is the one in the hound helm it?”

The guard pales a little, and rises. “She slipped away from us, M’Lady. The Witch we have was calling to them, running to them for aid.”

”Is the city aware of this... _Invasion_?” The Countess curls her lip.

Jean wants to slap the look off of her face, pick Helen up, and run to return another day. The slums of the city have grown in the last few decades, and she’s sure they could find somewhere to hunker down in.

”I don’t believe so, M’Lady, but I have a squad investigating the matter and continuing the hunt for the other one. She looks like a common thief to the public.

Ignoring them, the Countess leans forward, eyes trained onto Jean. The flicker in her eyes is knowing, and Jean doesn’t like it in the slightest. “What brings you two here then? Where do you hail from, why did she call out to you?” The Countess waves her hand, and two pairs of shuffling feet move off towards the left, dragging what could only be Helen with them. “Take the Argonian with you.”

The beast raises his head, looks at her in horror, and to Jean with almost pleading eyes. As if he expects her to rip the claymore from her back and demolish the entire court room. They grab him by the back of his neck, deliver a punch that breaks one of his teeth, and proceed to drag him down a corridor beside the stairs. The only sound to be heard is the struggled grunting of the guards and the fearful pleas of the Argonian.

Jean takes a long pause before responding.”M’Lady is from a royal house in Kvatch. I have been charged with her personal protection. She grows bored with the same daily occurrences of Kvatch, and has selected this destination for entertainment. I see now that it was a mistake. The hospitality here is morbid.”

”That’s quite the sword on your back,” the Countess states, quite smugly. “Would your Lady care to remove her hood in my presence? That in itself is considerably rude.”

 _She definitely knows_ , Jean thinks. Her palms sweat. They’ve been cornered, and she’s never been one to bow her head and back straight into the corner. In a movement faster than their mortal eyes can catch, Jean swings her arm back and pounds the nearest guard directly into the plating on their stomach, denting it, and causing the victim to heave up his stomach fluids. She kicks the back of his knee, tears her sword from her back, and opens his throat. In the duration, the other guards have armed themselves, and so has Clare. She has situated her sword into the fleshy opening beneath the pit of a guard’s arm, ripping it out, and leaving him rolling in a pool of his own blood.

She should have acted quicker. She should have done this while Helen was with them, and the Argonian who could of aided them. How did she think she was going to get away with their ruse at that rate?

She’s a whirlpool of regrets. Thinking of her worries distracts her from the massive soldier lumbering his way towards them with a warhammer in both hands. She’s too busy fretting over what could have been, fretting over Helen, fretting over her severe tactical shortsightedness. 

The Countess seemed to know exactly who they were before they entered. Why bother with the charade? 

The brute of an Orc swings his warhammer, just as Clare steps in beside her to block two guards who attempted to overcome her. Jean hears her call her name, and it snaps her out of her frantic thoughts all too late.

The warhammer collides with her own helmed head first, thankfully, and Clare, secondly, whose head met on a collision course with Jean’s, knocking her out cold. She crumples beneath Jean, who writhes in pain where she lies.

She tastes blood, and realizes she had bit her tongue. Some of it dribbles down the side of her head and wets her hair., where the warhammer collided. Through the gaping maw of her helm, the Orc grins toothily at her, and reaches for her. She fumbles clumsily for Clare, grabs a fistful of her cloak, and clutches the fabric as if it would be her salvation.

Her world spins into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The White Gold tower can be seen from almost anywhere outside of the Imperial city. It serves as the "Imperial Palace" for noblemen and members of the Elder Council, as well as the Emperor and members of the imperial family. The tower was sacked in the Great War. Moth priest Dexion Evicus told the Dragon Born that the tower had been in disrepair and that the Elder Scrolls had mysteriously vanished from the tower.
> 
> Fun Fact: Moth Priests are members of the Cult of the Ancestor Moth, who normally reside in either the Temple of the Ancestor Moths or in the libraries of the White-Gold Tower. Moth Priests believe it is their sacred duty to study the Elder Scrolls. The priests study and discern the Scrolls in order to divine the future and use the knowledge to aid the Emperor. They also guard the deeper parts of the Temple of the Ancestor Moths where they reside. Sometimes, the priests may venture out into the world to search for more scrolls for the library in the White-Gold Tower.  
> Moths Priests eventually become blind as a result of continuous reading of the Elder Scrolls. Typically, this occurs due to a combined result of both decades of studying the scrolls and old age. However, Dexion Evicus became blind early in his life due to a lack of proper preparation before reading from an Elder Scroll.
> 
> Fun Fact: The Elder Scrolls are artifacts of unknown origin and quantity, being simultaneously archives of historic, past and future events. The prophecies of the Elder Scrolls and the Heroes are interdependent; one cannot exist without the other. They are also known as the "Aedric Prophecies," suggesting that they may have been created by the Aedra. Without technological aid, Elder Scrolls cannot be read without extreme side-effects, among which are blindness and insanity.  
> Generally regarded as sacred, and narrowly viewed with skepticism, the scrolls are infamously associated with bizarre acts of magical or abnormal force. More commonly, the Scrolls are renowned for their impeccable prophecies, ranging from the Return of Alduin to the Tyranny of the Sun.
> 
> Fun Fact: A Dragonborn, or Dovahkiin, which can mean both "dragon-born" and "dragonkind-hunter-born", is a rare individual who has been born with the blood and soul of a dragon, but the body and frailties of a mortal. They can naturally learn and speak the ancient and powerful tongue of the Dov, called the Thu'um.  
> Dragonborn scarcely exist, and it is rare for more than one to appear at the same time. They can belong to any race or gender, since dragons have no inherent concept of gender, and the dragon blood is a gift bestowed to certain mortals favored by Akatosh. Despite their divine souls, Dragonborn possess mortal free will and may serve as champions for either the Nine Divines or the Daedric Princes. It is unknown if the Daedra claim the souls of their Dragonborn champions as they do with their other servants. Their mortal bodies also subject them to mortal vulnerabilities; old age, death, and disease all affect Dragonborn as they do common mortals.
> 
> Some Dragonborn individuals have knowledge of the Thu'um, and can consume a slain dragon's soul and absorb its knowledge, allowing them to learn Words of Power instantaneously, which can be tuned to various different "Shouts".


	5. White Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been out of it for a while. Here's a small update to see if there's any interest

In her dreams, freedom is something that encases her entirely. It is something that is fully within her grasp, always, and without consequence. She’s soaring above woodlands on frayed wings twice the length of her body with the wind in her face and the earthy smell of recent rainfall. She feels untouchable and limitless; owned by none, seen by none, burdened by none. The horizon is within reach.   
  
And then her wings are gone, and she is running on all fours in the undergrowth, the horizon unseen and the deep dusk settling in. Where her walks in the woods were usually silent, there is life all around her, and she is awash with strange scents. The scent of fear, the thick musk of moss, the ancient oaks she bounds around, the mud that collects beneath her long claws.   
  
Jean is no longer alone.   
  
Clare runs beside her panting and grinning, bearing her fangs and looking at Jean with heart melting innocence and joy and looking several years younger. It’s the happiest she has ever seen Clare, and her wolfish appearance does not bother Jean in the slightest.    
  
Clare tosses her mangy head back to sing a song of joy.   
  
Jean tosses her head back to sing a song of love.   
  
Their comrades echo their songs and call them home.   
  
***   
  
Jean wakes, and every feeling fades away into an unbearable sense of pain and hunger.    
  
Both of her arms are suspended above her head in thick but rusted chains. She is bare from the waist up. The raw cold of the room is a shock, but as her body recognizes the mortal affliction, it dulls it out until she can ignore the cold entirely. One eye is harder to open than the other, crusted, and when she works her brow, she discovers the culprit of the dry substance over her eye. A wound is reopened, and blood washes over her eye again. She’ll have to make due with partial vision for now. Her body has to adjust before it can recover.   
  
Clare, nor Helen are anywhere in sight, but the Argonian she had seen earlier hangs suspended, much like she is, also bare from the waist up, and suffering significantly more wounds.   
  
What could he have possibly done to be in the same situation as herself?   
  
She half expected to wake up at the hanging gallows. But imperials were never fans of hanging. Nor are Nords. They prefer beheadings, and one of the last things Jean wishes to see is a bloodied slab of rock and an executioner’s axe, as a crowd’s jeers and cheers its momentum.   
  
What a cruel reality to return to.   
  
She strains her arms, muscles tensing, the dark rust falling away in pieces. She even tries to jerk down, to no avail, and it’s puzzling. She has escaped these contraptions many times before.   
  
When she strains her eyes to study the metal, to her surprise, she discovers that it is not rust, but dried blood.   
  
The chamber door shrieks open, and a high elf guardsman steps in, only to be startled by the sight of Jean. Fear flashes in his eyes, and he immediately turns on his heel and slams the door before Jean can get a single word out of her dry throat.   
  
She hangs her head for a moment, and debates calling upon Meridia’s gift.   
  
Just as she is about to further her debate, the door swings back open, and the Countess appears before her. She waves whoever is behind her away, orders the door shut, and with no interruptions.   
  
She looks younger than before. Jean presses her lips together tightly and narrows her eyes, shuffling her legs. Resting on her knees for so long causes her to begin to feel the ache and toll it has taken.   
  
The Countess, with her long dark hair, loose, curling down her shoulders. Jean’s gaze follows the length of her hair, and lands on the highly inappropriate amount of cleavage bared to her, as the Countess shoulders off the green embroidered gown. Beneath it, small amounts of armor along her shoulders and arms. It must be for aesthetic. Jean can see over twenty weak points she could take advantage of even without her Claymore, and the Countess has to be aware of that.   
  
She  _ smiles _  at the Claymore, all sultry and no malice, and Jean’s heart picks up with what she deeply hopes is apprehension and not something more shameful.   
  
The Countess seems to just then notice the Argonian, and she scowls deeply at him.   
  
”Still breathing? They’re hardy creatures.” She steps across the stone floor, and Jean inhales deeply, flicking her silver eyes over the Countess. Looking for a dagger, a vile, any device meant to inflict harm.   
  
The Countess kneels before the Claymore, smiling again, and places both hands on either side of Jean’s face, causing the Claymore to twitch in an effort not to  _ flinch _ . She levels her gaze with that of the Countess’. She studies the slender jawline, the luminous green of those eyes, the full lips. Had the lighting of the room made her seem older?   
  
No, Jean is usually more perceptive than that.   
  
”Are you as hardy?”   
  
The question capture’s Jean’s attention, and she swallows hard. It hurts, the way her throat feels like a canyon, her saliva shards of glass. But she refuses to answer.   
  
This displeases the Countess, who drags her hands down the Claymore’s face, and wraps them around the Warrior’s throat, digging her long dark nails into the pale skin. The Countess leans in close, unafraid, and inhales.   
  
”Your pulse is thick. Fluttering. Is it fear, or excitement?”   
  
Panic settles in when the Countess loosens her hurtful grip, trails her fingers feather light along Jean’s collar bone, and downwards, stopping at the slightest swell of her breasts.   
  
Her heart is going wild and she cannot stop it. Her generally complacent expression twists into pained frustration. It is this mortal weakness that is the true curse.   
  
”Why are you here?” The woman whispers softly, as if it were a secret for just the two of them. Jean keeps one ear attuned to the Argonian’s very faint breaths.   
  
”What did you do to him?” Jean asks. A sharp hiss escapes her before she can consider withholding it.   
  
The Countess has raked those nails down her breasts, across her nipples, hard enough to break skin in some spots, and it leaves Jean trembling with eyes shut and teeth clenched.   
  
The Woman takes a moment, and then slaps Jean across the face, hard enough to snap her head to the side. Her strength, for royalty, is highly unexpected.   
  
”A question for a question,” the Countess hisses. “I will cater to you, because you won’t be leaving here. Why are you here, in this city?” Her fingers trail to pick at the strings of her trousers. The Claymore’s arms tremble.    
  
”Vampire,” Jean answers, simply to get her to stop. She needs to pull her thoughts back together.   
  
The Countess stalls her movements, looks Jean in the eye, and begins to laugh. An annoying laugh, high and haughty and demeaning. She laughs like she has won. Jean would love to sever those vocal cords. Her skin tingles and she glances down at herself. Her skin has begun to mend itself slowly, even with such minor wounds. The sense of coldness begins to return to her.    
  
The Countess gets up, and Jean feels her tense muscles relax if even the slightest.   
  
She pours herself a glass of what looks like wine. Jean can tell instantly from the smell that it is not, and suddenly everything falls into place. Goosebumps rise over her skin, and she feels like an absolute idiot for not realizing it much, much sooner.   
  
The Countess leans languidly against the wooden table. “I heard your species’ eyes turn gold when in the presence of the undead.”   
  
Jean remains silent. Her eyes flick once to the door. She knows what befell the Agonian now. No use in asking.   
  
”Where are Clare and Helen?”   
  
The Countess frowns, sets the glass down. Blood paints her lips, and dribbles along her chin a little. She opens her mouth to speak and Jean interrupts.   
  
”A question for a question. I answered, now you have to.”   
  
She nearly laughs again, and Jean is thankful that she does not.   
  
”I don’t find those kinds of games all that amusing. You’re in absolutely no position to be demanding anything. They’ll be taking your place when I’m done with you.” She drums her nails against the old desk, runs her eyes over Jean’s form, causing the Claymore to squirm ever so slightly.   
  
Nudity was not often an issue among comrades in their early days. A quick change in the bushes, armor malfunctions in battle. But being studied so perversely by such a creature, it triggers the desire for modesty. Or protection.   
  
Jean looks away. At the Argonian, at the tiles beneath her knees, and the candle in the corner on a smaller desk. She wonders why she had to be first, and then she is thankful that she has been first. If she can withstand whatever the creature has in mind, it gives her comrades more time, and herself more time to think.   
  
The creature is in front of her, and she had never even seen the Countess move. She jerks backwards against the chains. “Folk’ve forgotten us, you know.” The sudden change in the way she speaks is as shocking as an ice bath to Jean.   
  
”Since the second fall of the Dark Brotherhood.” The vampire clarifies, and sits back on her haunches.   
  
Had the lighting changed? Is her vision clearing? The Countess’ dark locks are reddening as her face takes on the appearance of near innocence. Jean knows better. She’s put many vampires to the sword, but perhaps not one as old or as in power as the Countess.   
  
”Are you paid for this?”   
  
The way the creature jumps from subject to subject has Jean scrambling to keep up all while sorting out her own thoughts.   
  
”Not this time.” Jean answers, after a fulfilling silence.   
  
”Of coooourse,” hisses the Countess. She leans her head back, baring her throat and smiling. Black veins creep along her pale skin. “You’re no mercenary, no monster hunter for hire. For the most part. You  _ were _  paid for the Giant in Bruma, though, weren’t you? It was only a matter of time before it came to this.” Her green eyes grow pale.   
  
Jean knows she doesn’t have much time. No time to wonder how the Countess heard of the incident, no time to concern further over the fate of the Argonian. She needs to get free of her restraints, or she will die.   
  
Bones crackle, and the Countess’ nails grow, her arms elongating, her skin turning from pale to sickly. Her single set of sharp teeth are joined by several more, filling the creature’s mouth.   
  
”You’re a rare treat. I want to make you last.” Her tone is losing its human edge, and her arms are gaining muscle mass.    
  
Jean shakily gets up her feet, and reels. She had to have been drugged as well. Of course, a vampire who lives as long as the Countess doesn’t live by making mistakes.    
  
The Countess lunges at her, and Jean pulls her weight down on the chains, swinging her feet up and kicking them hard against the creature’s chest, which sends it flying back into a candle-lit table, breaking it in half.   
  
Roaring, the Countess flips back up onto her feet. Her hair is mussed and ragged, her eyes clouded. Apparently the Argonian did not sate her hunger. The Claymore wonders when the Countess last had a full meal, and wonders how she kept up such a benign appearance.   
  
The less a vampire eats, the more their affliction shows its traits.   
  
It moves with overwhelming speed and ferocity. She’s tackled and pulled by the Countess’ deceptive weight, and the ancient stone the chain is attached to on the ceiling comes loose, hitting the creature on the back. In a rage, it sinks all razor teeth into Jean’s shoulder.   
  
Eyes flashing gold, Jean pounds her bound hands against the vampire’s back until the bite is released, and then she turns the tables and flips the both of them over, pressing her superior weight down over the vampire, who shreds her pants into ribbons with her desperate and unyielding talons, and blood streams and dribbles onto the floor, sending the hungering creature further into its frenzy. She raises her arms, goes to slam her fists into the creature’s face, and only manages to get her forearm trapped into the creature’s jaws, which hold tighter than a bear trap. Her bones feel as if they might splinter under the steady pressure, and she howls in pain. She pushes all of her weight down onto that arm instead of instinctively pulling, gagging the creature.   
  
Her struggle brings the Argonian back into the world of the living, bleary and weak, he shouts hoarsely to Jean. “Dagger. Dagger by my foot.”   
  
She can’t finish the vampire without leverage. She takes a risk, and leans down to bite the vampire back, her own razor teeth sinking into the side of the creature’s head, and she comes away with a pointed ear, spitting it out. The Countess shrieks, holding the side of her own bloodied head.   
  
With Jean free, she gets up and stumbles towards the bloodied dagger. Before she can turn around the vampire’s arms encase her, and the jaws close down on the side of her throat. She’s sure the creature pierced an artery, if not her jugular.    
  
She yells out loudly and stumbles backwards with the pull of the creature’s weight. When she manages to orient herself, she picks up speed at the last moment, slamming hard against the brick walls of the cell, and then does it again and again until the creature releases its hold on her neck and howls out in pain.    
  
Jean throws her energy into repairing the damage done to her neck, already feeling weak from what little was drained. Starving vampires certainly don’t take their time. Her world swims, forcing her to drop down onto one knee. Her legs have bled more than anything.   
  
The Countess scrambles against the floor, dragging her tongue along the red ribbons left behind by the Claymore, and shudders in pleasure. She grins at Jean with her spacious raw teeth.   
  
It’s sickening. Jean feels what little lies in her stomach roiling.   
  
There’s a clamor outside the door that draws the Countess’ attention for just a moment. Long enough for Jean to charge her head on.   
  
She’s famous for her hard blows, and she’s sure the creature doesn’t expect such a sudden reserve of strength to hit her.   
  
Jean connects her fist right into the notch of the vampire’s upper jaw, where the side connects up into her cheek bones. She feels it shatter around her knuckles and feels absolutely satisfied with several sharp teeth fall past her adversary’s lips.   
  
The Countess reels, feels along her jaw, and looks at Jean with what she would describe as the most deadliest look she’s been given in her career so far. A werewolf couldn’t beat the brutal snarl forming on the Countess’ raw lips, the deep pit of revenge in those inhuman eyes. A roar breaks from her throat and she makes her way up onto her cold, grey, veined legs, ready to strike again.   
  
Jean only has enough energy left for defense, and her blood has given the Countess a significant edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Instead of the Aedra and Daedra worshiped by the other races of Nirn, Argonians worship the Hist. The Hist is a collection of giant spore-trees growing in the inner swamps of Black Marsh, but they are sentient beings described as “more ancient” than any other race. Argonians believe there was nothing before the Hist.
> 
> Fun Fact: Argonians are accused of causing the Knahaten Flu in 2E 560, which started in the city of Stormhold and spread throughout Tamriel like wildfire. The theory goes that despite waging a war for freedom, the Argonians were still vastly outnumbered by their Dunmer oppressors and devised a scheme to use biological warfare to obtain liberation. Though the claim is unproven, the fact that Argonians were immune to the disease encouraged it. The plague was one of the deadliest in history, ravaging the populace of Tamriel for 43 years, killing all affected non-Argonians and causing crisis in Elseweyr, southern Morrowind, Valenwood, and High Rock. The flu turned against the Argonians, who were thought to be carriers after the pathogen killed every non-Argonian in Black Marsh (even wiping out the entire culture of the Kothringi, a race of silver-skinned tribal men native to Black Marsh), instilling humans and elves with a fear of the province for centuries and causing Cyrodiil to lose control over it.
> 
> Fun Fact: The sun and stars aren't believed to be physical objects at all, but rather places where a hole was punched in the veil of Oblivion, allowing the light of Aetherius to shine through.


	6. Dull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events occurring throughout Jean's ordeal.

Her cell was damp and cold. It made her wounds smart and her head pounded like the hooves of savage horses.   
  
Helen was used to harsh conditions. Beating rain, immobilizing snow, marshlands of disease, but in that moment, she hated the cell more than anything.  
  
She was more than confident that Deneve could hold her own, but they worked best as a team, as Meridia herself decreed. There were days, sometimes weeks where they had to go separate ways, but like the two moons coaxed the tides towards them, they always found one another. Here, in the darkness, she felt vulnerable.  
  
Her eyes flickered gold in that darkness as she focused on healing. A broken nose, fractured ribs. Her jaw had been hit with a mailed fist more times than she could count. She had even fought a bear or two before, without the use of a blade. But Orcs were practically bears themselves; the difference was in the lack of excessive body hair and the ability to speak, Helen mused, shifting her jaw and feeling it crack.  
  
The only light that left her able to assess her wounds was from a torch, likely sitting comfortable in a sconce farther down the hall. The cell across from her looked empty.  
  
When she gathered her strength, Helen rose up and padded along the dirty stone, peering beyond the bars, pupils large to see beyond the darkness.  
  
“Clare. _Clare_.”  
  
Heavy footsteps responded shortly after, a sheathed sword slammed against the bars. She jumped back a little, and scowled at the armored guard responsible. He tilted his chin, looking down at her past his visor.  
  
“Shut up. Or I’ll move you further down the hall.”  
  
Helen leaned back in, baring her teeth a little in a smirk. “Oh no. Not down the hall. Into another cell, exactly like this one.”  
  
The bars were hit again, and Helen did not lean away.  
  
“You’ll be lucky if a starving skeever scurries by. That’s what your kind eat, don’t they? Roasting them on a spit, like the goblins in caves.”  
  
She fixed him with an unwavering stare, rising to her height. Part of her would gladly invite him inside. A better part of her knew there were more guards around the corner. _Somewhere_ along this hall, another one of their group had to be present. Deneve had disappeared, Jean had been taken the opposite direction of the cells. A small castle had to have only a select amount of places to separate prisoners.  
  
Again, the bars were hit. She could see rust flake off of them.  
  
“Right? Or do you feast on goblins too? Wouldn’t even be surprised if all those children’s tales were fact.”  
  
“Go piss out of your mouth to someone else,” Helen snapped.   
  
When the gold of her eyes glinted in the far-off light, the guard took several steps back and made haste away, tying the sheath back to his side. His voice, disturbed, floated from a distance. “Fucking demon.”  
  
Helen expected more to come.  
  
Deneve was always better at speaking to humans. She had more patience. Or at least, a better way of hiding how she felt.  
  
Helen wanted to reach through the bars and pull hard, until either the metal gave way, or the man’s body did. The snapping of bone would have been nothing but satisfying in that moment.  
  
She chewed at her lip and pulled on the bars again. One seemed loose, and looking down, she could see where the stone was worn away, causing the bar’s lower half to shift and jiggle.  
  
In a prisoner’s attire, she would have been lucky to get wraps for her feet. With the trouble caused and the given circumstances, she still had her boots, and gave the bottom a solid kick. Nothing completely unmanageable, but she needed to work fast before she was reverted back into a broken, bleeding mess. She placed both hands on the cool but callous bars and closed her eyes, focusing what little energy she had into her arms. Her biceps grew, stretching the thin fabric beneath her cloak. Her skin was accommodating enough, but flowing so much energy into a portion of her body without the sensation of adrenaline left her aware of the unnatural stretching, and the needle-pricking pain that accompanied the change.  
  
The bars were once built for the strongest, and Helen had no doubt they had been abused by raging prisoners in better years. Yet if anything, she was no mer nor man. The bars creaked as she tried to pry them apart, bit by bit. She could, in no way, simply rip them off, but she bent them in the center enough for her to squeeze through.  
  
She breathed in the sweet, stale air of premature freedom.  
  
There were eight cells entirely, which struck her as surprising. The path along the hallway had seemed much longer, perhaps because she had fought them all the way to the cell when Jean left her line of sight.   
  
To her left, there was a desk with a small meal and what appeared to be wine and a simple stool to sit at it. There, in painfully plain sight, was a large key. Helen happily swayed her way past several cells to grasp it. And the apple beside the bread. And the cheese. She stuffed the bread into her cloak; crumbs the least of her concern.  
  
To give herself an edge, she ripped the torch from its sconce and waved her hand, smothering the fire into embers, yet with enough of a flare to allow her to manipulate it. Her muscles shook and ached, but her eyes had hardly been used. Like a cat, she skulked along each cell, peering closely into the darkness until she spotted another cloaked figure. She crammed the key into the cell’s lock and tugged the gate open.  
  
Rushing in, Helen knelt beside the figure, and gingerly peeked beneath the hood at an unconscious Clare. A familiar face eased her nerves – yet she still aimed to pay them all back with the flames at her side. Helen nudged her repeatedly, then took to grasping her shirt and claiming her name. With no success, she seethed. Clare had less cover than she did. Somewhere along the halls was their supplies.  
  
She hunched down and wiggled under Clare, forcing her to lie along her shoulders. Helen huffed at the weight, shoved her way to a stand, and adjusted her companion until Clare was firm in her grip. Feeding energy into herself, she built up the flames from the torch into her palm until it glowed, leaving the torch itself dead. The flames danced at her hand, feeding on the surrounding oxygen and the daedric energy she pulsed into it.  
  
Quirking out of the cell with her abundance of Clare, Helen started down the hall at a burdened jog, not bothering a glance at any other cell.   
  
Halfway up the stairs, she met them. The clanking of the guards’ heavy armor could be heard afar, giving her plenty of time to prepare. She shot her arm forward several feet, spilling the flames across ancient stone. Shouts of surprise rang in her ears. Unaffected by the flames she spilled like liquid death, Helen shoved her way through the miniscule amount of guards.  
  
At the top of the stairs, another one greeted her, ready with an axe. Helen ducked to the side, internally wincing as Clare’s head hits the wall. Having dispelled the fire, her free hand latched onto the top of the guard’s chest plate, using her momentum to tug the human and send him spilling down the stairs to his brethren.  
  
The door, freedom, was wide open to her, and she charged through recklessly.  
  
\---  
  
Deneve stared him down at the back entrance of the castle. It had not been there once, but Deneve had done away with the crumbling wall, leaving an interior hallway.  
  
The Orc, all muscle, and all fury, stared at her through the tangles of his disheveled black hair. A look of resentment and bewilderment. She was well used to recognizing it all the same.  
  
“Strike again, half-breed,” he slurred past the bottom fangs that poked out from his broad lips. The guttural tone was beastly past a face of pinched, blackened eyes and rolls of a snarl. “You won’t be lucky again.  When I get ahold of you, I’m going to have my fun.”  
  
_Fun_ , as he asserted earlier, apparently involved stripping her of her limbs and gouging her eyes until his claws pierced the soft part of her skull. He was fond of reminding her, without attesting to his threats.  
  
His stance seemed to be mostly defensive, axe raised close to his head, after she kicked the helm from it. Deneve had hoped the impact would have bought her time.  
  
Of all the involvements between herself and Counts and Countesses, Anvil was proving to be the most insurmountably difficult. For guardsmen who were used to petty thieves and drunken harbor squabbles, they seemed far too prepared and capable.  
  
“I will only say it once. Let me pass. Or I will force you to move.”  
  
The Orc guffawed, and hoisted the axe into a more solid grip, backing towards the entrance.  
  
“You’ve all been nothing but vermin here. Did your demon finally tire of losing you _creatures_? Hah! Four is a vacation for Gromak. One witch at a time was getting _boring_.”  
  
Deneve inclined her head, a note of surprise in her voice. “There were more?”  
  
“Oh yes…” The Orc smiled, slow and crooked. “Three in the past year. You think we’re stupid? That we’re not aware of what the Countess is? She’s kept us for a reason. She’s kept me for a reason. She loves a witch served on a platter, and I’m more than happy to deliver _your_ head.”  
  
He swung broad, the heavy two-handed axe wielded with disturbing ease. It cracked loudly against her sword. Using her lighter frame to twist to the side, Deneve guided his strike away, the weight only carrying the Orc off-course. With a great flex of his arms he inverted the path, using the momentum to give another broad swing.  
  
With a grunt, Deneve twisted her blade, locking with the curvature of the axe’s head, and carrying the momentum farther until the Orc’s weapon struck rock and dirt. Energy flaring, Deneve drew in closer, shoving her foot into the plating of the Orc’s stomach.  
  
Though it was enough to knock him off balance, staggering several feet away, the Orc broke into a grin, a bark of laughter in response. Deneve yanked her blade from his, and made space between them.  
  
His broad hand rested on the dented plating, fingers pulling at the leather straps that held the armor in place.  
  
“Now that’s a first for me. Dented? Do you know what this is made from, beast?” It dropped heavily to the ground. The area she had kicked, towards his lower ribs, was badly bruised. The plating pressed unbearable pressure against it.   
  
Her eyes flashing gold, she searched for weaker, more disabling areas. She skimmed a map of scars and battles past one, perhaps lost. He would lose this, if he had not before.  
  
“What brought you into the Countess’ services?”  
  
The Orc gave great pause, leaning away in puzzlement. “What does it matter to a corpse?”  
  
“It doesn’t. But I still stand.”  
  
“For now,” he conceded with a pause. “She paid well. Gromak has muscle. Muscle gets paid well.”  
  
“You serve a vampire, and you call me a beast.”  
  
As the Orc roared out and swung again, Deneve ducked and rolled back towards the side of the castle, her own armor making the action cumbersome. She blocked the next solid swing, her muscles coiled as she braced against the brute strength. A section of the mer’s axe chipped, and his motionless dark eyes locked onto it, one edge of his mouth curling.  
  
“You’re strong. Eheh… last witch that passed here, I lopped her head clean off. I gave her time to thank me for the quick end. The Countess wanted more.”  
  
Deneve locked her gazed with his and held it, expression unchanged. Her brow quirked at the pressure as she shoved the axe back at the owner, creating more space between them. In their dance, though she tried to outwit the brute, his back remained annoyingly pressed towards the entrance.  
  
She itched with the desire to simply impale him and be on her way. His broad swings, though she was sure he could take the damage, left him open well enough for her. She was not, however, willing to accept the consequences afterwards.  
  
Their laws remained strict.  
  
She stood for a long moment, the tip of her sword lowered, and her eyes closed. When she heard the softest rub of metal scraping leather, she moved.  
  
She knelt down, passed through unto the stony floor of the interior of the castle, the soft sands and moss left behind, along with her opponent.  
  
He stood just as still as she, for a long moment, before his right arm flopped onto the ground along with the heavy head of his axe, parted from the shoulder. His bellow reminded her of an animal; confused, hurt, enraged.  
  
The Claymore stood, turned on her heel, and heaved the weapon up onto the Orsimer’s opposite shoulder where the weight rested testingly.  
  
He was resorted to breathing like a hard-ran horse, trembling and pressing his large hand over the gaping wound of where his arm had once been. Gromak said not a word, but fixed his spiteful dark eyes on her as he craned his neck and raised his head.  
  
“I want to know about those who have passed before. Your fate relies on your answer.”  
  
Gromak looked forward, out towards the stretch of the ocean that lapped at the castle’s old sandy feet. The loss of his blood had already paled him, his mouth seeming dry as he licked at his lips.  
  
“You all look the same to me. Except the one I killed. Red… Redguard. A gorgeous thing. I hated her more for it.” Gromak adjusted his knees, and gave a heavy breath. Deneve had expected more of a struggle. A loss of an arm did not stop most Orsimer. “Dark skin, those silver eyes, her braids…”  
  
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. I want to honor their untold passing here.”  
  
“I cut off her head. Asked the Countess if I could keep it. The other two were a bore.”  
  
Deneve dug her blade in harder, making him cringe, pressing his weight up until he rested on a knee and a foot; as far as she intended to let him up. His discarded arm bore the axe.  
  
“Fair skinned. Young, too. One had her hair tied and the other… Short, shaggy hair.” A great pause settled over them. Deneve had patience, but not for the time. The Orc seemed to sense the impatience. He looked up at her, truly stared in her eyes, and for the first time, she noted that the disgust on his face was false. He seemed to relent when she remained unfazed. In the depths of his darkness, she could see her own golden, predatory eyes staring back at her, and his hardened gaze drizzled away, like the rain season on a sloped rooftop.  
  
“Your little cult should never have taken her. By the Gods, she smelled like home…” He shuffled forward, grasping the axe with his remaining hand, and Deneve kicked him once to get him to let go, nudging the axe away.  
  
“I’ve heard all I need to. If you pursue me, I will finish you.” She snapped her cloak, pulled it from her shoulders, and boldly nudged it into Gromak’s bloodied fist. He looked at her, mouth partially agape, before balling it up and pressing it tightly to the wound.   
  
It had been risky to create it, but Deneve had never known an Orc to lie down and die.   
  
“Left hall, up the round stairs. That one needs help. Rest are in the dungeons. I at least pay respects to good fighters.”  
  
Deneve flew through the entrance, armor clanking as she went down the left hall, and up the round stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, eternal thanks for the support. This is another test chapter. I fully intend on continuing and settling deeper into the true plot in the next two chapters. Fun facts will be reduced unless I have something important to address to help those of you not too well-versed in the elder scrolls lore.
> 
> In this instance, Orsimer is a species name for Orcs, who have elf blood and heritage. Orcs do not have a significant, key homeland to their name (i.e. how Imperials are generally from Cyrodiil, the current territory these events take place in. Nords are from Skyrim, Khajiit are from Elsweyr, and so on. You will continue to see a lot of diversity in character throughout the cultures.


	7. Snow Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the Countess, and into new territory.

Jean was running.  
  
Down the hall, practically naked, with a similarly bare lizardfolk limping behind her, she ran, an arm drenched in blood, fist woven into dark tendrils. When she turned the corner, a bark of surprise hit her before the body of the individual. A clamor of steel on stone rang loudly around them, and Jean dropped low on instinct, tumbling with the impact.  
  
The Argonian halted near an entranceway, seeming conflicted about the pause, dagger at the ready until he caught on to their familiarity. He cocked his head in a reptilian fashion, crouching to gather various scattered items as Jean recovered.  
  
Seconds after the impact, Jean was back up on her feet, dropping her prize with fists at the ready, before gawking in surprise. Her canines and teeth peeked in the wreckage of a form that she fed too much power into, sharp eyes glinting with fury to silver. In her own moment of recognition, Jean dropped her offensive state, eyes roaming over Helen and the gear that surrounded them.  
  
Her own gear, and their weapons, she noted.  
  
In the chaos and panic, details came to her in a blur. The Argonian, arms full of trinkets, called to her in desperation, and she remembered what pursued them.  
  
She gripped the bloody wad of hair, and helped Helen to her feet. A silent look between them, and Jean was retrieving her arms, clasping sections of armor to herself.  
  
“What are you _doing_? Out! The exit is _there_!” The Argonian paced slightly, his wild slit eyes searching the curve of the hall behind them.  
  
When Jean cast the cloak aside, the form-fitting dark leather gleamed. With a single hand, she tested the weight of the familiar emblem-stamped weapon, facing the Argonian. “We have a job here. You’re free to leave.”  
  
When she stooped to Clare, she heard the footsteps of her temporary ally fade in urgency.  
  
_Out cold. Hard to tell if she was hit, or drugged_.  
  
Part of her suspected the famously dark colored and effective Narcoberry, commonly native to the Nibenay Basin, but known to spread in all directions.  
  
Helen shouldered Clare again, seeming troubled with the scrunch of her brow. She did not have to ponder long. Deneve was not with them, whereabouts unknown, but Jean could not finish their task alone.  
  
“I want to draw her into a more open area. Two of us can make it quick. I have her hair to burn, first.” Helen fixed her with another odd look, and Jean paused simply to explain, as simply and quickly as possible. “She’s an Alpo type. Burning her hair will weaken her.” Handing the hair over to the smaller woman, the dry bloodied locks caught alight in Helen’s palm and fizzled away.  
  
An agonized scream echoed down the hall, and Helen nodded her head with silent approval. They moved for the main gates. Oddly, without a guard in sight to stop them. The steward the Counts and Countesses of Cyrodiil were rarely seen without was cowering near a bolted door. Jean hoped the guards, at least, remained away when the Countess caught up to them.  
  
She shoved her weight against the bulk of the doors, which groaned loudly in protest, and stood aside for Helen. Looking behind herself, the Countess was standing in the hall, half of her scalp bleeding, weeping profusely into the once-lovely tangles of the creature’s hair. Her eyes were milk, but she sourced Jean out quickly, screeching before tearing forward towards the doors, down the lavish carpet. Her gangly and lengthened arms, pale and veiny, supported her upper half evenly with her feet as she bowled forward on all four legs.  
  
Jean slipped through the door rather than pausing to try to pull it behind herself.  
  
She stumbled with exhaustion. The physical exertion placed into subduing the Countess long enough for Jean to gain the upper hand, betting on a cheap rumor that turned to be true about vampiric hair, made her scramble along the grass and dirt like a drunken elk until they reached the bridge. There, Helen dumped Clare against a wooden pole bound with frayed rope, and readied her hands with a blade that was not her own.  
  
Back at the stables on the inside of the city lied Helen’s Claymore, Jean recalled.  
  
The vampire screamed, and the sharp sound seemed to bounce around Jean’s head as she cringed away.  
  
“Do you remember what I’ve taught you?”  
  
“Of course,” Helen chirped, a smirk pulled across her lips. “I’ve been practicing so much, I just might be better than you.”  
  
Jean snorted. “We’ll both have to hit her hard, so I’m counting on it.”  
  
Helen rolled a shoulder, tilting her blade against the light of the sun and adjusting her posture.  
  
Jean could not miss the flitting glances given to her wounds from the other female, and she pointedly ignored them.  
  
The Countess’ gnarled features twisted grotesquely as she hissed, raising onto two feet and remaining low. Jean doubted there was an ounce of coherent humanity left in her, lest she be restrained, and treated properly. But they were not there for that.  
  
For a moment, the warrior’s vision swam, and she blinked repeatedly to correct herself, and then the Countess was gone.  
  
Jean jerked to look around them, her breath coming heavy with anticipation. She looked to Helen, only to receive the same questioning stare. Helen’s head snapped to the right, eyes boldly gold as she struck out a broad, seeking strike.  
  
The invisibility spell dissipated with cracks and bolts of energy as the vampire screamed; another uncomfortably human sound.  
  
“ _Hah_! Not silent enough.” Pivoting, Helen turned and stabbed her blade through the back of the creature’s pale calf and deep into the ground below, pinning her for a moment only to be joined by Jean, who impaled her through the shoulder. Both of their arms pulsed and veined unnaturally, twisted muscle and flesh turned firmly.  
  
“Crazy what burnin’ a little hair can do.” Pressure firm on her blade, it twisted as Helen leaned to see the face of the vampire that clawed at the dead grass. Looking up, and making eye contact with Jean, a silent message was shared between them and Helen pulled her blade, sliding one of the double edges at the knick of where collarbone and neck connected.  
  
“Please!” It screeched, thrashing beneath Jean’s unforgiving pressure as she pulled her blade back enough for it to rotate, tearing apart the Countess’ upper half. As its skin blackened and flaked away, like chitin armor turned to ash, the vampire regained its human appearance, blackened tar pouring from where the bright crimson of a human’s would be.  
  
Jean cringed in disgust. An old, poorly fed beast indeed. Her gaze fell upon a hesitant Helen, who did naught more than press the blade harder, forcing the Countess’ head downwards as she hissed and breathed haggardly; a lung punctured, perhaps burst. Some of her organs peered out from where Jean’s blade had spun. Had they made a truer effort, and not sought the beast’s head in-tact, it would have been easier.  
  
Jean opened her mouth to question the other, and was cut short as Helen shoved the blade down, superior strength shredding nerves and connections. Another twist, and the head was off.  
  
In the Countess’ final moments, a tear rolled down her cheek as she stared into Helen’s eyes, and then through them.  
  
\---  
  
Jean was more than happy to lie back against the plush moss of a tree as the tension flowed from a major wound to her side.  
  
Clare had not remained incapacitated for long, but watching her come out of whatever had afflicted her was entertaining, to say the least, as Clare staggered and grappled against Jean for support several times.  
  
“I can’t believe you just locked them in the dungeons. Seriously,” Helen remarked, terminating the temporary silence between them all. She had been oddly distance since the beheading, and the visible tension in Deneve’s shoulders seemed to ease the moment she spoke.  
  
“And I seriously can’t believe you didn’t listen to me and decided to take off.” Deneve pressed her hands more firmly into Jean’s side, and Jean couldn’t help the grunt that escaped her. The burning ebbed away as their combined efforts to close her wounds took effect.  
  
“It’s _said ‘n done_.”  
  
“So are the guards.”  
  
Helen puffed, crossed her arms, and favored searching through her cloak and pockets; possibly ensuring everything was there. Once, she had reached behind her to trace her fingers along the hilt of the Claymore returned to her.  
  
Jean thought Helen would have kissed Deneve when the woman appeared with the weapon. She was close, in the least, managing to drag the poor number fifteen into a crushing hug that practically choked her.  
  
Jean at least owed Helen for retrieving her helm, as well as her weapon. In a short time span, Jean had grown oddly attached to it. Perhaps it was the fierce, foreboding appearance. Perhaps it was simply because it was the most significant, most personal gift she had ever received, let alone from a mortal.  
  
She chanced a glance across from herself at Clare, only to find Clare staring back, and immediately tossing her gaze to the side. Tilting her head, Jean could only continue to stare in the absence of the other’s attempt.  
  
“I said put your arm up.” Deneve yanked, and Jean cringed and bared her teeth, sputtering a breath.  
  
“ _You pulled a muscle_ ,” Jean accused, grunting a little as her sore, pinging arm was hung above her once again.  
  
“ ** **You****  pulled it, I’m repairing it.”  
  
“You don’t give _me_  that much attention when I get beat up.” Tired of trudging around, waiting for them all to lick their wounds, Helen finally planted herself down, looking back towards the city of Anvil that loomed not too far off from their tree-heavy hideaway along the beach.  
  
“You don’t sit still long enough.” Deneve expressed a sigh, though her expression implied nothing short of patience.  
  
Eventually, the pain in Jean’s arm subsided, and she lied back once more, focusing her own energy into the ribbons and tears along her chest and abdomen. While combat nudity was never a call for attention from other warriors, Jean could not help but focus on the exposure of it, and was consequentially offered a cloak to _ward the elements_ , as Clare had put it.  
  
An inn would have done nothing for them with the entire city guard seeking them out after the _incident_. She wondered how much the city’s populace was aware. Perhaps the guards had hid it all away, or placed blame to the warriors. It would be easy, with a human body and a missing contorted head; the only remaining part of the Countess that would have given her away.  
  
The expulsion of energy to heal herself, along with what she had been through, left her feeling tired to her core.  
  
“Narrow escape.” Jean leaned up, huffing as she did so, attempting to get into a better position than lying slack and drooling. Healing from another warrior felt far, far too nice. She remembered the Argonian, with a certain fondness.. He had been a wonder to work with, and she respected his decision to salvage his own life. Very, very few would have helped her to the extent that he did. Which was to say, he stayed with her instead of fleeing once loose. Had he not been there, Jean reflected on what could have potentially happened.  
  
The task went haywire, given highly unusual circumstances.  
  
They could be one less. Jean could have not been sitting there, breathing in the forest air and, subtly, the natural scent Clare gave off that she had become so accustomed to. She clung to it for a sense of familiarity and a reminder of what she owed.  
  
“The rest you should be able to handle on your own,” Deneve confirmed, after looking her over.  
  
Clare, though dizzy in the head, leaned away from a tree to toss Jean soft hide and the armor possessed at the shop.  
  
“Fancy, by the way. Pick that up at the habor?”  
  
“Out of necessity.” Clare inclined her head to the inquiring Helen, on her knees before Jean, and tightening a strap. “You hair’s a mess.”  
  
“Always.” Jean went to smooth her hand back through her hair, only to have it all fall forward again. It hung over her eyes, and somehow seemed improper. Yet even as she tried a second time, Clare reached forward to muss it all up and push all of the bangs downwards again.  
  
Feeling the weight of a stare on her, Jean glanced to the other two of their party, feeling her face heat phenomenally when met with telling smiles. Flustered, Jean gently batted the other’s hands away, clearing her throat and trying to rub the slightest pink from her face before it dared to grow.  
  
_Even Clare is smiling, a little_.  
  
She stowed the memory away, and thwarted her attention, lest she feed further into the obvious.  
  
The smirk on Helen’s face made her want to tackle the woman back over the edge of their chosen lookout. Her warning stare seemed to get to the once-amused warrior, who frowned, and glanced at Deneve.  
  
_Yes, I know too_ , Jean seemed to say, and Helen rubbed at her nape, quieted.  
  
“ _So_ , I guess this is where we part ways?” Helen murmured.  
  
Deneve bumped her shoulder against Helen’s amicably, brushing the forest floor from her trousers. “All of us took her down. Jean had the most progress, but we all have to go back to the shrine.”  
  
“Bet Meridia is waiting to send the men in light. Whole city must be after us… I mean, probably. Didn’t help she assumed her human form before we finished.” Helen pulled the dungeon bread from her cloak, offering it to Deneve, who gave a very dull and questioning stare.  
  
“Most likely. It would be in our best interest to rest for now. Given how long I’ve been out, I wouldn’t mind taking the first watch.”  
  
“Aww, Clare’s first vampire hunt and she’s all tuckered out!” The winning smile spread itself comfortably out across Helen’s face once more, and not even the vacant warning from Clare could smother it. A bite of bread did, though.  
  
Jean’s eyes ached every time she blinked them.  
  
\---  
  
At some point, Jean dozed, because the sky had darkened significantly, and Clare was no longer in her field of view. Sending the slightest ping out reassured her instantly, feeling Clare’s presence directly beside her.  
  
She perched at the edge of the short cliff, hardly a foot away from where Jean was lying, overlooking vast waters. Her form was stiff and guarded, easily seen even from where Jean lied. Now that the sheer exhaustion passed, and more of her wounds were healed, Jean leaned up and stepped over a book-buried Deneve, who paid her little mind. Helen snoozed on her lap.  
  
Jean had not expected what little spare attire they had to come in hand any time soon. Rummaging through a pack yielded a sleeveless tunic, of which she comfortably adorned herself in. It made her feel far more at ease, and the cloak Clare offered guarded from the sea’s breeze. She thought on the small Breton who had offered it to her, and found, sadly, that she could not recall her name.  
  
No one was ever present long enough for the necessity of committing anything to memory.  
  
She made her way back over to the cliff side, sat beside Clare with her feet hanging over the edge, and soared when Clare leaned slightly against her.  
  
\---  
  
It was mid Frost Fall when they wandered north along the Orange Road towards Bruma, the northernmost settlement of Cyrodiil. The Highlands were to the North West, and the Heartlands comfortably cradled the fork of the Orange Road and the Silver Road.  
  
It was in this month of chill that Jean began to suspect Helen’s loose tongue.  
  
Another long hunt led the four banding together on the trail, and in that time, Jean had less privacy than she would have liked.  
  
Clare behaved strangely, and Jean liked that even less. On some nights, though cold was of little issue to them, Clare rested close to her. On other nights, she was unusually distant and unresponsive, though Jean never prodded her far.  
  
Of course, Jean had no doubts that Helen was not so cruel as to clue Clare directly. But her _quiet_  discussions with Deneve behind them were not always so concealed. When Helen accompanied Clare on a hunt, or another task, it made Jean ruefully uneasy.  
  
“Missed it. Again.” Deneve sighed, soaked head to toe, standing in the stream. Though they were equally able to withstand the harsh current, Jean had a better spear arm, and Deneve corralled the fish towards her almost effortlessly.  
  
Many a chance came before her and many a chance was lost.  
  
Deneve waded her way towards the edge of the bank, pulling herself up, and accepting Jean’s aiding hand. She clenched it with a firm grip to catch Jean’s attention, and maintained it.  
  
“Are you feeling all right? You’ve been off since we left Skingrad.”  
  
Jean teetered on the idea of confession, and Deneve leaned to catch her gaze again.  
  
“Mistakes are too costly out here. I don’t want to have to second-guess whether or not you have my back.”  
  
It was a very fair point. Jean stuck the spear down into the loose mud that caked her blackened boots. The sun was mid-rise, making it dry easily.  
  
“Has Helen said anything to Clare?”  
  
Deneve gave her a measured stare, before tipping her head. “Not involving what you think.”  
  
“Is it really that damn obvious?”  
  
“No. Helen is just a little more- well…” Deneve stalled, furrowed a brow, running her hand back through her wet hair absently. “I don’t think you realize how much you stare.”  
  
Jean opened her mouth, and Deneve lifted a finger.  
  
“- _But_ , I didn’t interpret it that way, at first. I think Helen is just more perceptive.”  
  
It was a polite way of saying _nosey_ , she knew, but Jean appreciated the tact. It was no comfort that others knew, and it was certainly no comfort in even the smallest potential of Clare being aware.  
  
Deneve reached out, and tugged the spear from Jean’s grip, jabbing it down hard into the water, and ripping away with a flopping, gaping salmon. She then handed the spear back, expression unreadable.  
  
“Clare does not know. But if you keep your head in the clouds, she won’t be far off the trail. Please, try to maintain your focus in the coming days.”  
  
“The binds of my honor come before my desires,” she replied, firmly, prying the fish from the spear to be strung up with two others. With the assertion, Jean did not break eye contact with the other, and Deneve nodded after a short time.  
  
As the short spill of tension ebbed away, Deneve was back in the waters, and Jean’s eyes glowed gold as she peered into the waters, the sharp edge of the makeshift tool raised.  
  
“How long?” She asked Jean, wading to the other side of the river. The roar was gentle, and in the background of her concentration.  
  
Jean crouched closer, looking at the ripples of the water, anticipating the fish who would naturally try to avoid being intercepted on the other side of Deneve.  
  
“I couldn’t tell you.” Jean raised, aimed, and threw the spear down as hard as she could. It stuck out from the river bed, angled from where she had thrown it, and Deneve retrieved it, a long-snouted fish flopping with all of its might on the end.  
  
“Somewhere along our travels. Maybe I just realized it while walking. Maybe it was bit by bit.”  
  
Another fish was hung, and Deneve pulled herself out to dry, satisfied with the last catch.  
  
Jean let her shoulders drop as she peered up at the sky. She had not bothered to try to push her hair back in days, and it certainly needed a trim. “I don’t think I realized what it was. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
Deneve looked up, across the river, her brows raised silently.  
  
“I owe her something. And I refuse to let my personal feelings interfere with that.”  
  
\---  
  
Bruma’s wilderness was vast in pine and snow. At the edge of Cyrodiil’s territory, the Jerall Mountains were an imposing line of frigid weather and high peaks that led on through into Skyrim. In spite of the consistent chill, there were pockets of dry lands where hot springs were slim, but present. Jean could appreciate the contrast between the steaming waters from underground pits of heat and the bite of the cold, like a flame that kept the snapping teeth of wolves at bay.  
  
This was the weather she thrived in.  
  
While Clare did her best to not make it clear, Jean knew she was much more of a summer lover, given the province she hailed from. For as long as Jean could remember, she called Skyrim home. Dancing along its edges gave her an odd sense of relief and comfort in the familiarity of the landscape.  
  
Maneuvering snow and cutting crags and blistering winds was something she was far used to.  
  
Clare, not so much.  
  
She watched from behind as Clare struggled in waist-deep snow, edging one leg in front of the other. Their resistance to the cold only went so far, despite having far more endurance in it than even the average Skyrim-native Nord that called the coldest peak of Skyrim home, but that did not mean blizzards did not slow them down and seep into their bones.  
  
She could hear Clare’s teeth chattering above the wind as she pushed on ahead, never once pausing, or flinching away from the sharp flakes of ice raining down upon them.  
  
It was then that Jean that had to convince her to stop.  
  
Looking to the west, she could see where the snow thinned and the trees were their dark shade of green again. She caught up to Clare by widening her strides, and reaching for her arm. The woman stopped with the slightest brush of fingers, and it was all Jean offered. Wordlessly, she pointed towards the treeline, and looked to Clare tellingly. The enduring silence that followed suggested that Jean lead the way.  
  
The path was tight once they left the snow laden clearing. The raking pines hardly phased her with the hound-helm on, and Clare was too short for the low branches to give her much trouble.  
  
“Oh.” Clare mumbled, in a tone with the least amount of bitterness Jean had heard in days.  
  
The heated water was nestled away, steaming so heavily in the chilled air that it was difficult to see through the milky atmosphere. Even in proximity, Jean was warm enough to unclasp her heavy bear-skin cloak, folding it and lying it over the nearest rocky platform. Several smaller pools surrounded the largest, and Jean tested the temperature of one by dipping her fingers in.  
  
Much to her surprise, as she looked over her shoulder to assure the other of the safety, Clare had half of her attire off, and was working on placing her boots off to the side, wiggling out of her pants.  
  
Jean corrected herself as she worked through the laces and straps of her armor.  
  
Now bare, and still in the frozen wilds, Jean half awkwardly danced her way to the water’s edge, the mists concealing her well as she slipped in and hissed. The stark contrast was affronting, nearly making her retract, but she forced herself deeper and adjusted quickly enough.  
  
It was, and would remain to be, the only chance at a decent bath in days.  
  
At the deepest standing point, the water brushed the base of Jean’s ribcage. With the way the rock was structured there were several ledges to plant oneself on. When she did so, and slumped into the water, it came above her collarbone easily. The bumps on her skin seemed to melt with it, and for the slightest of moments, she had forgotten Clare was present until she heard the water shift and a similar noise of conflicting surprise over the temperature.  
  
As they often did, they sat in amicable silence.  
  
Jean closed her eyes, tilted it towards the lightly-snowing sky, and relished the discovery.  
  
Something brushed against her foot, startling them back open, only for her to realize it was Clare who had simply elected to move closer.  
  
“Jean.”  
  
“Yes?” She closed her eyes again, and tilted back. Clare’s pale skin was a lovely shade of pink, likely due to the heat of the water, and Jean preferred not to allow her eyes the luxury of wandering. Or as Deneve had revealed, her _staring_.  
  
Clare however did not seem satisfied with this, reaching over and brushing Jean’s thigh. She twitched, involuntarily, and the other certainly gained her attention. A pulse picked up where Jean did not need it to.  
  
“These are your homelands?”  
  
“Skyrim, yes. I used to frequent this pass often.”  
  
“Which hold are you from?”  
  
Jean glanced away, throat bobbing once. “Can’t recall. I spent more time in caravans.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
A silence passed between them. Wordlessly, but _always_  invited, Clare sat beside her, staring out towards the trees.  
  
“Is all of Skyrim like this? Just snow, and cold?”  
  
Jean quirked a brow, and wanted to snort. It was a base, innocent question.  
  
Only once could she recall the other taking any amount of interest in their homeland, and she refused to invest further thought into it. Many more tasks awaited them at the Divine’s order.  
  
“No… There are springs, like this, but mostly in the deadlands. Forests, fields, pastures. Cyrodiil has its strange creatures, but there are stranger still in the north.”  
  
She was content to leave the matter, but Clare looked at her with a diluted but genuine interest.  
  
“Like mammoths,” Jean amended, shifting a little, slumping further into the water. “The trolls are hardier. There are snow serpents, and the horses are different. Once we get across the Jerall Mountains through Pale Pass, there’s a settlement strictly north called Helgen. If we went to the west, we would reach Falkreath in no time. The north is breathtaking. I remember… when I was a child, that the others and I would play games across the ice plates between Solitude and Dawnstar.”  
  
“There are many different things.”  
  
“Yes.” Jean conceded. “Not counting the Black Marsh, I believe Skyim is the second most dangerous land.”  
  
“Your input is valuable,” Clare stated in monotony, and Jean was afraid she had spoken too much. Clare blinked, and seemed to slip from whatever trance had taken her, more enthusiasm in her tone. “I see now why you’re so durable.”  
  
She took it as a compliment, and wondered if she should ask Clare where she hailed from. Looking her over, there was no clear answer.  
  
“Will you leave me in Skyrim? When I am done?”  
  
The question stalled Jean.  
  
She almost felt insulted.  
  
“No.” She said, firmly, looking up from the waters and deep into the endless sea of silver that was Clare. “I would follow you across the Sea of Ghosts. I would follow until my legs gave out beneath me.”  
  
“I never asked you to.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
\---  
  
They shared a treat of warm wine over their fire that night, just beyond the Pale Pass. Three caravans from Skyrim had passed them along the way, the steely and unidentifiable masks of the new-province guards giving no indication towards relief, or disgust at their presence.  
  
Regardless, Clare seemed to be in a better mood than days prior.  
  
Jean could not recall what she had said, but it made Clare ****snort****.  
  
Perhaps it was the wine, or the fact they had found a secluded overhang of shrubbery that kept them suitably warm. Or, perhaps, it was simply the generosity of a Khajiit caravan that saw them off with plenty of food for what little they had in monetary value.  
  
“Good trades in warmer sands,” one had proclaimed.  
  
Shortly after she pried a book from her pack, Clare decided to read over her shoulder.  
  
\---  
  
“Those are mammoths.”  
  
Jean spoke with disinterest as if she were merely referring to a sheep, but Clare stood solid where she was, mouth softly agape as she stared at the small herd of three and a young one. So long as they kept their distance, the large beasts were harmless. Their footsteps made puddles nearby tremble.  
  
“Wh- who-?”  
  
Jean smiled, walking back down the beaten path to Clare, sharing her view. In the distance by a fire pit far more like a bonfire, crouched a haggard thing of what appeared to be an enormous a man, lanky and wrinkled and sickly toned. When he stood, he was easily over three times Jean’s height, and lugged a club the size of a tree over its shoulder.  
  
“They’re just called giants. Don’t have names. They’ve only been seen herding the mammoths around. Like a shepherd would to sheep.” She let Clare marvel a while longer, before starting back up the path. “We’ll attract his attention.”  
  
Clare gave a last glance behind them to the south, where the small settlement of Helgen had been, long rebuilt since Skyrim’s age of the ****World Eater****. But it did not harbor kind faces, any longer.  
  
Once, their travels had been composed of silence.  
  
When it suited her however, Clare gifted Jean with an abundance of questions, so benign and clueless that Jean found herself more than tolerant. It was something new, and it passed time.  
  
\---  
  
The moment they reached Riverwood, Clare forfeit her curiosity to leave Jean on her own again. Here, she hardly minded. The chatter of goats and dogs and the distinguished accent of native Nords was not exactly home, but deeply familiar.  
  
A blacksmith working away hard at a forge stopped to wipe the sweat at his brow, and offered her a crooked smile from beneath a well groomed beard.  
  
“I’ll go wherever I ****damn****  well please, and I’d like t’see you stop me! It’d be the only thing anyone would see you do!”  
  
“Fortua, you’re causin’ a scene. Please come back inside.”  
  
The telltale pleading of a tired, desperate mother. Jean sighed past her lips, adjusted the wolfish helm beneath her arm, and walked back towards a group of compact houses.  
  
Surely enough, an elven woman in a flour-caked apron stood by the door, expression pinched distraught as a younger, dark elf met her with clenched fists, and a sword messily tied to her hip, far too big for the wielder.  
  
“All you ever do is cry about it. I’m going to _do something_. Not like father would anyway. I found him at the inn, so drunk he didn’t recognize me!”  
  
“Fortua, please!” The mother motioned to say something more, and clenched her jaw closed, her eyes wild with _hope_  when she spotted Jean. “Stranger!”  
  
It took her a moment to realize she was being called to, and beckoned, but not before the young dark elf could storm away, a protest left at her mother’s lips.  
  
“She won’t heed a word I say. Please, we don’t need to lose her too.” The woman’s lip quivered, and she worked her throat, as if she were trying to keep her tone level and tears at bay. “I can reward ye for your time. Just… By Talos himself, please!”  
  
“Do you realize what I am?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me. You wouldn’t hurt her, would you? I simply want her to see reason – look, I have ten silver-“  
  
“I’ll return.”  
  
Turning on her heel in the direction of the young Dunmer, she moved on without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, I ended up writing beyond Cyrodiil far sooner than intended and right into Skyrim. Skyrim will play a massive role in this but I intended on exploring Cyrodiil more simply because the landscape is so deeply underestimated in the rich lore it's basking in. And I gotta touch it. So expect it eventually, and of course, those of you who continue to read this are the best.


	8. Wolf's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia makes an appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, this chapter contains a warning for child death.

It was not difficult to find the girl.  
  
Behind the houses, there was a small path that led up the mountainside, and apart from her smell, there were fresh, smaller footprints in the mud heading up the path. Jean felt for Clare’s presence, and then started up the hill.  
  
Barely half a klick away, she found the girl clutching onto the sword and sobbing into the fabric that encased the blade, crouched down near a boulder.  
  
Jean was not good with crying.  
  
Jean took a step forward, unsure of whether or not she should attempt to console the girl. It seemed to catch the dark elf’s attention, and the moment she looked up at Jean, her red orbs were newly awash with tears as she warbled, and attempted to scoot away. Jean was thoroughly unmoved by the gesture.  
  
Perhaps the dullness in her soothed the worries of the girl. She was not unfamiliar with the whispered rumors of Silver-Eyed Witches stealing children away to make them slaves to the daedra. Whether it was a mere tale invented for children, or a legitimately believed rumor, she had never cared to discern, but a prominent feature seemed to be their ‘monstrous eyes and razor teeth’.  
  
Neither of which she displayed.  
  
“That sword is too big for you.” After a moment of realizing that not every little girl grew up wielding a sword bigger than themselves, Jean added, “and you should not be taking off with a weapon like that.”  
  
“It was ****Papa’s****!” The girl shot back, closing herself around it tighter. She could not have been older than twelve season cycles.  
  
“Was?”  
  
“Was.” The girl confirmed, narrowing her eyes at Jean. “He doesn’t use it. He doesn’t need it. Caleb needs it.”  
  
“Who is Caleb?”  
  
“My best friend.”  
  
“Your mother is a Nord. Your father must be a Dunmer, then.”  
  
“I’m adopted, _stupid_. So’s he.”  
  
Jean startled, momentarily taken aback by the manner of which the girl responded. It was strangely difficult not to allow it to get under her skin. Perhaps it was simply the girl’s degrading tone. Instead, she sucked on her teeth for a moment.  
  
“And why does Caleb need it?”  
  
“He needs to fight off the wolves.” When Jean stared at her, the little girl uncurled herself, perhaps in the realization Jean questioned merely to aid. She pointed further up the path, deeper into shaded woods. “He’s at the top. He’s been there since yesterday. We were playing and the wolves came and now he’s all stuck. Mama wouldn’t let me go. Her and daddy talked about it and he won’t come home and no one’ll listen!”  
  
Jean could not recall the last time she had heard of wolves so close to the settlement. Like many things, it took her a moment to realize that they posed a significant threat to the average man and mer, certainly those whose craft was creation, cultivation, and marketing. Far more so to a boy.  
  
“Why don’t you return home while I go up and have a look?”  
  
At the proposition of aid, the girl was immediately on her feet, struggling a moment to lug the weapon, her bright eyes suddenly wild with urgency. The crying, it seemed, had been from hopelessness, or perhaps an excess of emotional conflict. The girl was clearly aware of the weapon’s weight.  
  
“No! I have to go too. I told him I would come back. Momma just wouldn’t let me! I just said so!”  
  
It was a bold sentiment for a child, an ember of ferocity that Jean would not smother at such a young age, not over this matter. Wolves were easily handled by trainees, and it had been long years since Jean had been nothing more than that. There was nothing in her to give concern. She did not reply, and the girl was content following her at the heels as Jean followed the winding path, occasionally corrected by the girl.  
  
Looking around the trees and their low, low branches, Jean could see trinkets and dolls of sticks atop makeshift constructs of dead wood. After a short time, she was in a clearing of disturbed snow, and looking beyond at the greater creations, likely produced by the duo. Namely a small hovel of sorts and various other snow sculptures, as well as carvings in the trees.  
  
A sharp scent drew Jean’s attention as the girl walked ahead of her, calling the boy’s name, and Jean cocked her head in its direction.  
  
He must have fallen from the tree perch.  
  
On the ground below, the snow was churned and smothered in paw prints and scraps of red, and in the center, just below the perch, lied a small corpse, torn open from the front and ripped to scraps. She could see bone stripped white, snow that embraced the mess of gore, and the single lifeless eye remaining in the boy’s head.  
  
For several long moments, Jean stood there, staring, willing yet unable to tear her gaze away.  
  
\--- Years Prior ---  
  
“Decommissioned.”  
  
“Decommissioned.” Jean repeated tonelessly.  
  
The man in dark robes kept his back to her, grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. “Yes.”  
  
It would be all the answer she would be getting, if she did not press.  
  
“May I ask why?”  
  
“A decommissioned subject is no concern of yours.”  
  
“I like to keep tabs on others in my region.”  
  
The man stopped, turned, and fixed her with an unempathetic stare, as if he looked right through her.  
  
“She showed minor signs of awakening after your departure.”  
  
Jean felt her shoulders drop with her gaze as she stared at the tiles beneath her feet. She did not move when a black card was thrown at her bare, dirtied feet.  
  
“I’ve kept forgetting to give this to you. How long has it been?” He took his time, and she listened with grinding teeth and a tight throat as he shook herbs, and poured them. “Several months, at least. Well, it’s the sentiment that counts, and you get to see it with your own eyes. You know, as they say, ravens are often shot down nowadays. A bit too late now though, isn’t it? I’m quite sure another got the job done.”  
  
As he turned again, and Jean raised her gaze, the man in robes smiled. Slow, cruel, and with blackened teeth.  
  
\--- Present ---  
  
Her chest hurt when she inhaled, and no amount of chill could have been responsible.  
  
Why this triggered such a memory, Jean wished she could discern. It was not the first, and it would never be the last body she saw. When she shook herself from her own depths, Jean moved quickly to shield the girl, only to realize that she, too, had been staring.  
  
Tears streamed her face freely, the sword discarded in the snow and Jean felt her foreboding sense of loss as if the weight of the world itself was pressed down upon her shoulders. When she turned the girl, she did not protest. Nor did she continue to stand on her own feet. Had Jean let her drop, she would have lied motionlessly in the snow much like the sword. She did not protest, though conscious, when Jean scooped her into her arms, bound in boiled leather with peaks of uncomfortable metal. She did not complain as Jean made her descent away from the scene.  
  
She paused at the clearing as a long, deep bellow rang from the endless peaks above.  
  
\---  
  
“An orphan boy,” the mother stated, avoiding Jean’s unwavering stare. Cradling the young elf in her arms, Jean had been invited inside by the fire. The smell of whatever cooked inside of it made her sickened stomach coil. There was no appetite to be had.  
  
The woman cast her eyes to the flooring, hands bunched up in her apron. She looked far too worn and weary, frail and dejected. Her hair was an unyielding grey, face scrunched with wrinkles, and she looked far closer to a grandmother than a mere mother. She would not have had the will, it seemed, to stop her daughter even knowing the circumstances, and it deeply conflicted the warrior.  
  
“And the Jarl of the region has done nothing?”  
  
Her question seemed to surprise the woman, who looked up suddenly, and then pinched her expression into anger. “ _Of course not_ ,” she spat, frown deep. “He told us he would send a number of his guard. That was a month ago, Claymore. A ****month****.”  
  
Jean did not know what to say. When the woman continued to stare at her, Jean tilted her head up, and stood to excuse herself, knowing she too would not be stopped. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe you will have any more issues with your daughter leaving.”  
  
\---  
  
Clare’s presence was far when she stepped outside, and Jean found herself truly irritated for once. She took the feeling, and stuffed it far beneath the snow she was made from. It was a substantial sensation, and circumstantial at that.    
  
They should not have stopped in the town.  
  
Meandering in the direction of Clare’s vaguest presence, Jean startled at an overbearing wave behind her. Like a blazing fire at her back, and snuffed away in a second. Jean whirled around, and had to tilt her chin up, the tip of a finely honed blade biting into her throat.  
  
“You actually jumped! That’s hilarious!” The warrior before her displayed glee, eyes crinkling as a smooth smile curved her lips. It was predatory and inviting, but the invitation bore the promise of sharp teeth at the front of her prey’s throat.  
  
Jean said nothing as the unfamiliar warrior lowered her blade, stuffing it into the casing on her back. The display had captured significant attention, and it irked Jean more. She bit at the inside of her lower lip as the other canted a hip and planted a hand on it.  
  
“I detected a _Claaare_. You wouldn’t happen to be traveling with her, would you? Oh, why am I asking? Her scent is all over you.” The other leaned in, sniffing and Jean reflectively leaned away. “Don’t be like that. I simply wanted to say hi to an old friend, and be on my way.”  
  
“I don’t believe I caught your name.” Jean’s voice sound rasped, and drizzled with fresh grief. She cleared her throat, and buffed her breath into the cool Skyrim air.  
  
“I’ll share it over a pint and a warm meal. Of course, in exchange, you might actually have to make use of your voice! You sound like you’re on your death bed.”  
  
\---  
  
Jovial as ever, the other walked into the Sleeping Giant Inn as if it were her own, and claimed an entire table to the side. The ‘tender at the far front of the broad establishment fixed them with a stare, and peeked beneath his counter to rummage. Though it was hardly setting into darkness outside, several patrons held close to horns and laughed among themselves in an opposite corner. Only one glance had been shot their way; and wisely so.  
  
Her apparent companion was far too happy to meet the gaze of anyone who challenged her presence. Namely, the owner of the Inn that seemed displeased to have the company, so Jean distracted her.  
  
A large rectangular pit of flames sat in the center of the room where several sticks of meat and seasoned vegetables were roasted. It was a graciously spaced inn compared to those in the province of Cyrodiil, and all rooms were on the ground floor.  
  
The smell of the meat made Jean’s mouth water.  
  
She captured the woman’s attention by clearing her throat, and the cold stare she was fixed with rooted her. Despite the carefree mannerisms and the easy-coming smile so reminiscent of Helen, that was where the similarities ended. There was nothing warm in the woman’s callous silver, so Jean focused elsewhere, other details to commit to memory, lest they cross paths again.  
  
Perhaps the next most obvious trait, noted because Jean had met her gaze, was her elongated ears. It was troubling to ponder whether or not the warrior was of elven blood, or if the process of daedra influence on their bodies had molded them, reminiscent of so many undead warriors and beasts and _creatures_  with elongated ears.  
  
She focused on what she found nice, to keep her tone level. The kempt braid that fell over the warrior’s shoulder suited her far too well, and accented the ears.  
  
Ophelia bared her teeth in a smile, and Jean dropped her eyes to the long canines cradling neat, flat bone.  
  
“You ask my name and yet you seem focused elsewhere.”  
  
“It is habit for me to take note of features. My memory isn’t the best.”  
  
“I hope you’ve jotted them down well. I doubt I’ll be one you forget.”  
  
Before Jean could prompt her further, the Warrior leaned back in her chair as the ‘tender delivered horns of mead, and was bid to leave the broad, deep chalice. Jean ran her fingers along the mammoth bone to the flat of the bottom, peering inside. The red liquid made her think of the color that painted the snow.  
  
“So! I’m Ophelia. I never would have imagined Clare would come up this far. Let alone with company. The moment I felt the drip of her presence – ah, it only reminded me of all of the good times we’ve had! Nostalgia is a jarring feeling, don’t you think?” She tipped her horn back, and drank at length.  
  
Yes, it was quite jarring. When Jean looked at the far, far mountains she felt the same pang. An inescapable itch that invaded her chest and leaded it down, yet she could often not discern particularly what brought the feeling about.  
  
“Jean.” Out of politeness, Jean sampled the mead, and had to look in the horn again. It certainly was not watered down, and the explosion of flavor, along with her company leaning closer over the table, erased the red snow from her troubled mind. It had a puzzling, immediate effect. “I – wasn’t aware that you knew Clare.”  
  
Ophelia let the smile linger with a great pause, invaded by the crackling of fire and a high elf snorting and slapping her hand on a wooden table in breathless laughter. A large Nord, clad from neck to toe in thick steel armor, was wheezing beside her. The familiar disposition between friends and familiars made Jean’s chest at ease.  
  
“No. I wouldn’t imagine she would say much. Our meeting was quite personal. Life and limb, it was. I would really enjoy seeing her once more. I most certainly promised her that I would.”  
  
“She went to the hillsides, and I gave her peace while attending to my own duties. I can’t predict when she will be back. However, that was quite a greeting you gave me.”  
  
She followed Ophelia’s eyes as they rested on her neck, where they stayed locked for several moments. Consciously, Jean swiped at her neck, and came away with dried, dark blood. “What rank are you?”  
  
“Does it really matter?” Ophelia drawled, leaning back again, and downing nearly half of the horn. “Ahh, what really matters is your inattentiveness. If you’re going to stalk around guarding someone, don’t you think you should be more aware, even when alone?”  
  
Jean bristled, and paused herself with another drink, swallowing venomous words. “Fellow warriors are different from the daily threats we face,” she responded, carefully. “You hid yourself from me, and you did it well. I have nothing more to say on the matter. I know my capabilities.”  
  
Ophelia hummed, and lifted a corner of her smooth lips. It was a skeptical look, full of mockery, and Jean conjured the patience Deneve had left her with.  
  
“I doubt you would feel the same way if something were to happen to poor Clare. But I digress. Her hound is here and waiting, and what can you do from here?”  
  
Jean looked up from the horn, and embellished her disapproval with an unwavering stare that challenged the other.  
  
Ophelia smiled, pleasant, and unconcerned.  
  
It made Jean want to throw her drink into the others face. Before she could amount to anything close to the urge, she switched topics.  
  
She had nowhere else to go, until Clare returned for her. Waiting around, like a good dog.  
  
Was that what her other comrades saw?  
  
The fire was warm and the drinks were free and as much as she wanted to tackle the woman across the table, Jean was interested in more than wallowing in the opinions of beings who had only glanced into the companionship her and Clare shared. She tried not to think too heavily on it. She had a purpose again, and she would fulfill it.  
  
“What brought you here?”  
  
The question seems to catch the other by surprise, marketed by the tilt of her brow and the flickered blink. Perhaps she had expected a snarl over her comment. It was merely a second, and gone before Ophelia rested her elbows on the table, her eyes traveling away to ensure no other ears rested on them, and Jean appreciated the tact, in that manner.  
  
“Contract on a werewolf. Meridia is _just_  as fond of _their_  God, Hircine, as much as Molag Bal himself. Supposedly it’s been snatching orphans and children who stray too far from home. Shredding the elderly to ribbons. Nothing too special.” Ophelia shrugs her shoulders, and speaks as if she might be merely referencing the weather.   
  
Jean feels her eye twitch.  
  
Far, far to the left of the inn, another individual in the room, apart from the group, manages to borrow her attention. He lied face down on the table, multiple tankards and glass bottles littering the surface and a part of the floor around him, unmoving apart from breathing.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be hunting it then? You’re not on vacation. Your target is active.”  
  
“Oh, let it have its fun before its head ends up on a plaque. Doesn’t our organization teach of the value of nature’s life?”  
  
“A werewolf is not natural.”  
  
Ophelia went to lean forward, a smile at her lips, before a jolt in the air caught both of their attentions. It was but for a moment, and then smothered away like a candle’s worn flame. Ophelia smiled wider.  
  
“ _There_  she is. I’m so glad you joined me. It was only a matter of time, and you know I have time.”  
  
Jean had missed it. Feeling for her now, Ophelia’s presence was just as absent as when she had stalked up on Jean. The door to the inn opened, thunder roiling softly outside, and Clare stepped in.  
  
Ophelia was halfway to her before Jean could move a muscle.  
  
Clare had drawn her sword, poised to defend, and yet Jean had managed to beat them both to it, her sword deflecting Ophelia’s downward swipe, aimed to cleave Clare in half. The burst of effort made to beat Ophelia left Jean panting deeply, veins creeping up her neck and eyes gold as she stood trembling in the exertion.  
  
With a snarl, Jean shoved outwards, forcing Ophelia to jump back.   
  
She did so smoothly, ducking away from the roiling flames that had been behind her.  
  
“Clare! Your hound has bite!” She guffawed freely, and rather genuinely, her gaze transfixed on Clare.  
  
Jean reigned herself back in firmly, the veins creeping away from her neck though her eyes glinted like the sun, fury wading in the molten depths.  
  
“None of that in here!” The innkeep roared, the silence that overwhelmed the room now painfully laden. The small group of three in the corner had gone silent, the armored Nord standing up from his seat.  
  
Jean felt a tug on the back of her cloak, and without taking her eyes from the opposing warrior, followed the tracing path backwards, out of the inn.  
  
Once outside, Jean wheeled around and shoved Clare aside, narrowly sliding to the left as Ophelia came at her, nearly knocking her off balance down the stairs as her heel slipped from the sheer force thrown behind the strike.  
  
Watching her footing, Jean stumbled down the short flight of wooden leverage, successfully having gained the offending warrior’s attention, who waved her sword so quickly, even Jean’s feral gaze could not pick it up. The rattling impact jolted up her arm as she braced her weapon against it, causing her to clench her teeth tightly.  
  
“Excellent! Such strength!”  
  
Ophelia’s strikes only grew fiercer, as if she had merely been testing Jean, and the moment her silver orbs blazed like a flame, Jean knew whatever advantage she had was going to be short lived.  
  
 _“I’ve never seen them fight one another.”_  
  
A comment from a growing crowd, but Jean did not turn her head to source it out. Ophelia was close enough that she could feel her breath as their swords met with a flurry of metal snaps. When Jean burst forward in retaliation, Ophelia seemed to flit away, a laugh in her tone.  
  
 _Nine Divine_ , Jean thought, as she slugged forward. Her vision wavered, and she remembered the strong mead that had been carelessly tossed down her scorched throat.  
  
Clare had come up quietly, and yet Ophelia’s blade met hers in defense just as easily and locked them together, sidling in close to Clare, who grunted beneath her breath in exertion.  
  
“You’ve gotten a _bit_  stronger, girl. But this will turn out just as it did before.”  
  
“Last I recalled,” another grunt from Clare. “You went running back into the woods.”  
  
“Just as before.” Ophelia parted from Clare to dodge Jean’s brutal charge, and the amount of force behind it led to a toppling tree as Jean’s wound blade dug into the trunk, tearing the fibers asunder. “You have a friend to help you.”  
  
The diminutive sum of two guards that the village beheld kept their distance, though their weapons were brandished and their tones were fierce in calling the dispute off.  
  
“I thought Ilena would have taught you something.”  
  
“Ha! These ears are selective, _Clare_. Though I did spend the better part of my year with her.”  
  
A hard look from Clare kept Jean from charging again, though her body was rigid with the tension to do so.  
  
“You stayed with her?”  
  
Jean blinked away the gold of her eyes, and felt her power dwindle as she exhaled heavily, jerking her weapon from the wood, and fixing the opposing Claymore with harshness.  
  
Ophelia tilted her head to grin at her.  
  
“It was an honest offer. I’m no fool, Clare. She bested me, and I intended to learn from it. Show me what she’s given you! I’ve spent ages trying to reach beyond it.” Ophelia looked off, elsewhere, as if taken by memories and reflection, and it would have been the perfect time to strike.  
  
“If you learned from here, you would have learned to control yourself.”  
  
“That’s such baseless thinking.”  
  
Jean blinked, and Ophelia was against Clare again, forcing her back against a blacksmith’s lodge as civilians either urged the guards to put a stop to it, or encouraged Ophelia’s onslaught out of the desire for entertainment.  
  
Jean got two steps into a weary stagger before she halted, frustration strewn across her features.  
  
“ ** **Jean****! _Stay there_!”  
  
She wasn’t a pet, she thought, the elite warrior’s words having worked themselves deep beneath her skin.   
  
As Clare attempted to slip away, Ophelia pinned her harder, both tips of the blades biting into the wood.  
  
“A few months invading a hermit’s space doesn’t quite change someone’s most base personality, _Clare_ , but what would you know of that? You’ve such a bland personality. If it weren’t for other attributes, well, our first encounter would have truly been your last.” Ophelia leaned closely to her, dropping her tone so low it was unintelligible.  
  
Clare did the unexpected as her face reddened, slamming her head forward into Ophelia’s face the moment she slid their blades to the side.  
  
An explosion of blood and Ophelia reeled back, a hand pressed to her face and coming away with thick-flowing red.  
  
Much to her surprise, the assailant began laughing, though it sounded irregular as she pinched her broken nose, crackling it back into place, and snorting some of the blood to the side. “You _really_  caught me off guard there!” She seemed to admire the bold crimson on her fingers.  
  
“Let’s talk.” Clare offered, dodging her eyes around them. “ _Outside_  the settlement.”  
  
Running a tongue across her bleeding lips, Ophelia agreed with no more than a smile and the sheathing of her blade, and Jean felt the tension spill from her hunched shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> This was great stress relief, and I will very likely be posting more. But it's wonderful to hear the opinions of readers, so please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment. Extra fuel.


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